3535 
R5668w 


E  WITCHERY 
of  RITA 


THE  BERRYHILL  CO. 

Phoenix,  Arizona 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Witchery  of  Rita 

AND 

Waiting  for  Tonti 


BY 
WILL  H.  ROBINSON 


AUTHOR    OF 


"THE  MAX  FROM  YKSTERDAY,"  "THE  STORY  OF 
ARIZONA,"  "HER  NAVAJO  LOVER,"  "THE  SOUL 
OF  EODIN  JOYCE,"  "THE  KNOTTED  CORD,"  ETC. 


PHOENIX,  ARIZONA 
THE   BERRYHILL  CO. 

1919 


COPYRIGHTED,  1919 

BY 
THE  BEEEYHILL  CO. 


HAMMOND    PRESS 

W.     B.     CONKEY    COMPANY 

CHICAOO 


PS 

3533 


To 

MRS.  JOHN  COBOBN  SARTELLE 


785270 


FOREWORD 

IF  these  stories  have  a  purpose  other  than  the 
one  which  should  take  first  rank  in  fiction — 
that  of  entertaining  the  reader — it  is  that 
they  may  bring  back  from  the  shadowy  yester 
days  a  suggestion  of  a  life  and  people  long  since 
gone  from  our  golden  Southwest. 

The  cliff-dwellers  of  Montezuma's  Castle 
might  easily  have  been  the  ancesters  of  Tonti, 
and  all  that  happened  to  Rita  are  well  within 
the  picture  of  old  San  Xavier.  As  for  our 
goat  Nicolas,  he  needs  neither  champion  nor 
sponsor.  His  ancestors  lived  on  terms  of 
equality  with  Spanish  dons  and  his  posterity 
today  bows  the  head  to  things  human,  only  for 
purposes  not  in  the  least  connected  with 
humility. 

If  Nicolas  got  royally  drunk  on  Spanish 
wine  he  showed  no  greater  frailty  than  many  of 
his  human  contemporaries  who  knew  better  and 
doubtless  acted  worse. 


WILL  H.  ROBINSON. 


PHOENIX,  ARIZ., 
Sept.  8,  1919. 


THE  WITCHERY 
OF  RITA 

A  STORY  OF  SAN  XAVIER 
MISSION 

IT  was  in  the  old  Spanish  Mission  days  in  the 
Santa  Cruz  Valley,  when  the  quail  still  called 
"Cuidado!"  instead  of  "Quit!"  and  the  do 
main   of   the   king   extended   as   far   north 
through   what   is    now   known    as    Arizona    as 
the  viceroy's  imagination — restrained   only  by 
Apache    lances — could    carry;     a    time    when 
Papago  neophytes  said  their  prayers  regularly 
and  worked  fairly  faithfully,  and  when  among 
the  "genie  decente"  there  was  always  leisure  for 
the  gracious  word  or  a  copa  de  vino. 

Outside  the  mission  of  San  Xavier,  then  but 
barely  completed,  a  brilliant  winter  sun  bathed 
the  beautiful  facade  and  towers  in  a  flood  of 
golden  light,  while  Indian  laborers,  directed  by 
brown-coated  friars,  were  busily  clearing  away 
the  last  of  the  building  litter  in  preparation  for 
the  coming  Christmas  fiesta. 

Inside,  high  up  on  the  scaffolding  under  the 


8  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

dome,  sat  young  Rafael  Valdez,  brought  from 
Guadalajara  to  do  the  more  important  of  the 
interior  decorations,  and  with  him  Rita  Avila, 
who  since  babyhood  had  danced  on  the  hard, 
brown  earth  of  San  Xavier  with  the  lightest 
foot  in  the  valley. 

Speaking  socially — but  not  otherwise — they 
were  as  far  apart  as  the  poles,  for  the  youth 
had  an  ancestral  tree  that  was  rooted  among 
the  dons  of  Castile,  while  the  girl's  father  was 
besotted  old  Sanchez,  ex-sergeant  in  the  king's 
army,  the  possessor  of  a  thirst  for  the  fruit  of 
the  vine  that  was  guaranteed  to  be  absolutely 
unquenchable.  But  what  difference  did  that 
make?  He  was  gallant  and  she  was  fair,  and — 
well,  that  is,  in  part  at  least,  what  this  story 
is  about. 

Besides  being  gallant,  right  now  Rafael  was 
tremendously  busy,  being  engaged,  with  the  aid 
of  a  brush  and  a  daub  of  paint,  in  attaching  a 
left  ear  to  a  comfortable-looking,  middle-aged 
saint;  Rita  the  meanwhile  gazing  at  him  with 
adoration  tinctured  somewhat  with  solicitude. 
"To  turn  paint  into  people,"  she  observed,  "is 
truly  a  miracle,  but  to  allow  hot  chili-con-carne 
to  become  cold  is  almost  a  sin.  I  ran  all  the 
way  so  it  would  be  perfect  for  you." 

At  this  Rafael  turned,  kissed  the  adorable 
end  of  Rita's  straight  little  nose,  twisted  a  piece 
of  tortilla  from  the  basket  beside  them  into  a 
spoon,  dipped  it  into  the  savory  stew,  trans- 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  9 

f erred  it  to  his  mouth,  said,  "Wonderful!"  and 
went  back  to  his  ear. 

Rita  munched  happily  on  a  piece  of  panocha. 
"They  saw  the  witch  again  last  night,"  she  an 
nounced  conversationally,  "Isobel  and  her 
mother,  both.  She  was  like  a  ghost  walking 
past  them  in  the  moonlight.  She  was  bare 
footed — in  December;  and  they  say  she  has  an 
evil  eye." 

"Trust  that  pair!"  commented  Rafael.  "If 
there  is  anything  to  see,  Senora  Montoyo  sees  it; 
if  there  is  anything  to  hear,  she  hears  it;  and 
even  if  there  isn't  anything  to  say,  she  says  it." 

"Seguro,"  agreed  Rita,  as  she  always  agreed 
with  what  Rafael  said.  "She  told  me,  too,  that 
if  a  witch  looks  a  girl  in  the  face,  it  will  make 
her  lose  her  lover."  Again  the  look  of  adora 
tion  came  into  her  eyes.  "I'd  hate  to  have  her 
look  at  me." 

Rafael  had  now  quite  completed  his  saint, 
and  anybody  could  tell,  almost  at  a  glance,  that 
the  ear  really  was  an  ear  and  not  a  flap  of  the 
cap.  This  triumph  being  accomplished  he 
dashed  his  brush  down  and  kissed  a  pair  of 
lips  that  were  like  the  roses  of  Andalusia  for 
loveliness.  "No  witch  on  earth  could  make  you 
lose  me  or  me  you,"  he  said  with  a  tone  of  con 
viction  as  though  he  alone  of  all  the  world  had 
discovered  that  love  was  ever  unfailing. 

Rita  sighed  contentedly.  "That's  what  I 
thought,  too;  only  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  it. 


10  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

Senora  Montoyo  also  thinks  it  is  improper  for 
me  to  bring  you  dinners  up  here,  all  alone." 

"Senora  Montoyo  is  a  fat  old  cat,"  declared 
the  artist.  He  looked  at  his  sweetheart  with 
melancholy  thoughtfulness.  "Think  how  lonely 
I  am  going  to  be  when  I  go  to  Tucson,  palomita." 

"It's  tomorrow?"  questioned  Rita,  suddenly 
winking  hard.  "And  for  a  whole  week?" 

The  young  man  nodded  with  the  gravity  the 
situation  demanded.  "Until  Christmas;  but  if 
I  make  a  good  portrait  of  the  alcalde's  wife  I 
get  fifty  pesos,  and  then,  querida,  we  can  get 
married  whether  father  sends  me  any  money 
or  not." 

Gathering  tears  fled  before  this  radiant 
thought.  "Then  nothing  can  harm  us,  and  if  I 
see  the  witch  before  you  come  back,  I'll  cross 
myself  and  say  an  'Ave'  quick  like  that,"  and 
she  clapped  her  little  hands. 

"Making  devil's  horns  is  good,  too,  when  it's 
witches,"  suggested  the  youth.  "What  makes 
witches  is  that  they  sell  themselves  to  El  De- 
monio,  and  when  one  makes  'horns'  that  re 
minds  them  of  who  their  master  is.  Do  you 
know  how  to  do  it?" 

Excited  by  the  daring  suggestion,  Rita,  with 
a  little  gasp,  shut  the  first  three  fingers  of  her 
right  hand,  and  held  her  plump  fist  with  the 
thumb  and  little  finger  standing  straight  up. 

The  youth  regarded  the  operation  critically. 
"That's  the  way,  only  you  have  to  make  them 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  11 

quickly."  Then  being  an  artist  he  had  an  in 
spiration.  "Listen,  lindita,  Pablo  the  Papago 
has  a  little  brown  goat  with  horns  that  look 
just  like  El  Demonio.  I'll  buy  him  for  you,  and 
you  can  teach  him  to  follow  you,  and  then  you'll 
have  devil's  horns  with  you  all  the  time  till  I 
come  back." 

"Bueno!"  beamed  Rita.  "And  every  time  I 
look  at  him  I  can  think  of  you.  Can't  we  go 
and  get  him  now?" 

They  did,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  were  sit 
ting  behind  the  delapidated  adobe  hut  Rita 
called  home,  watching  the  goat,  which  certainly 
did  bear  a  startling  resemblance  to  the  pictured 
Arch  Fiend  in  the  priest's  house,  calmly  chew 
up  a  cactus  plant,  thorns  and  all. 

A  third  spectator  to  this  interesting  per 
formance  was  old  Sanchez,  and  when  the  young 
people  were  considering  what  they  should  call 
the  animal,  he  waved  the  cup  of  vino  he  held 
in  his  hand  with  tipsy  gravity,  "Name?  Name? 
Jus'  one  name  for  a  goat  with  a  face  like  that. 
Senor  Goat  in  the  name  of  thy  father,  El  De 
monio,  I  christen  thee  'Nicolas  Capricornus' !" 
and  to  the  scandal  even  of  Rafael,  who  prided 
himself  on  his  broadness  of  view,  doused  the 
beast  with  the  dregs  of  his  wine  cup. 

Drunken  caprice  or  not,  Rita  began  to  won 
der  the  next  morning  if  her  father's  rash  act 
hadn't  made  Nicolas  a  devil's  imp  in  very  truth. 
The  comfortable  dwelling  and  trading  station 


12  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

of  the  Montoyos,  where  the  Seiiora  slept  in  an 
open  porch  at  the  rear,  was  but  a  few  yards 
away  from  the  Avila  hut.  At  daybreak  the 
goat  jumped  on  the  adobe  wall  that  divided  the 
two  places,  walked  along  it  to  the  open  porch, 
then  seeing  what  any  reasoning  goat  might  take 
to  be  a  pleasantly  rounding  hillock,  jumped  on 
it — to  his  eternal  disgrace,  for  alas,  the  round 
ing  hillock  was  nothing  less  than  the  ample 
stomach  of  the  Seiiora  Montoyo! 

But  after  breakfast  came  the  time  for  Rafael 
to  depart  for  Tucson.  There,  in  front  of  the 
Avilas',  was  the  artist  on  horseback,  sitting  his 
saddle  like  a  grandee  of  Spain,  and,  with  the 
goat  at  her  heels,  there  also  stood  Rita  at  his 
stirrups,  looking  like  some  shy,  big-eyed  dryad. 
"I  feel  as  though  something  muy  triste  was  going 
to  happen  before  you  come  back.  I  dreamed 
you  were  lost  and  I  was  looking  for  you,  and  the 
witch  came  along  and  carried  me  off  on  Nicolas' 
back — and  I  woke  up  all  shivering  with  fear!" 

Rafael  patted  the  girl's  hands  comfortingly. 
"Say  your  prayers,  querida,  and  keep  Nicolas 
with  you  and  you  need  not  have  the  fright,  and 
on  the  Noche  Buena — Christmas  Eve- — I'll  be 
back  with  something  that  will  make  your  eyes 
shine." 

As  he  rode  away  the  artist  bowed  most  cere 
moniously  to  the  Sefiora  Montoyo  and  her 
daughter  who  were  watching  them  from  their 
door.  "Give  the  alcalde  our  greetings;  you 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  13 

know  we  are  such  friends,"  called  the  Senora. 
And  then  to  the  daughter:  "Anyone  can  see  that 
he  is  just  playing  with  that  worthless  little 
pelada.  For  her  own  good  she  should  be  sent 
away  before  the  affair  becomes  a  scandal,  for 
of  course  he  couldn't  marry  her.  I  shall  see 
Padre  Narciso  today." 

"Much  he'll  help  you,"  warned  Isobel  crossly. 
"He  thinks  because  old  Sanchez  used  to  be  a 
sarjento,  Rita  is  as  good  as  we.  I'd  like  to  set 
that  witch  on  her!" 

At  this  the  Senora  Montoyo  said,  "Ah-ho," 
and  then:  "Why  not  if  other  means  fail?  We 
must  think  of  the  young  man's  father,  an 
abogado  in  Guaymas.  Still  we  must  be  careful. 
There  will  be  a  moon  tonight;  I  shall  sit  up 
and  see  the  witch." 

Isobel  gasped.  "But  the  evil  eye;  she  will 
look  at  you !" 

"I  have  no  lover  to  lose,"  replied  the  mother 
grimly.  "Besides,  I  can  say  a  charm." 

"The  Papagoes  may  see  us." 

"They  are  too  afraid  to  look  out  of  their 
huts  after  midnight — and  that's  the  time  she 
comes." 

"Teach  me  the  charm  and  I'll  sit  up  with 
you,"  said  Isobel. 

Don  Manuel  Montoyo,  as  an  Indian  trader 
under  the  sanction  of  the  crown,  was  a  per 
sonage  of  some  importance  in  every  place  in 
San  Xavier  save  in  his  own  home;  there  he  was 


14  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

but  a  mere  man,  and  naturally  was  not  con 
sulted  when  there  were  matters  of  importance 
afoot  such  as  those  which  then  occupied  the 
Senora. 

That  night  the  women  made  a  pretense  of 
retiring  at  the  usual  hour,  but  after  the  Senor 
was  comfortably  snoring,  the  Senora  and  Isobel, 
their  heads  well  covered  with  black  mantillas, 
slipped  out  into  the  moonlight  and  hurried 
down  the  road  to  the  mission,  in  front  of  which, 
it  seems,  the  witch  was  accustomed  to  walk,  and 
there  they  waited  in  the  enveloping  shadow  of 
the  facade. 

An  hour  passed  and  not  a  living  creature 
appeared.  December  nights  are  cold,  even  in 
the  valley  of  the  Santa  Cruz,  and  Isobel,  who 
had  not  her  mother's  opulent  proportions, 
shivered  with  cold  as  well  as  nervousness. 
"L-1-let's  go  home,"  she  stammered.  "I  d-d-don't 
believe  she-sh-e's  coming." 

"Go  home?  Me?"  demanded  the  Senora  with 
memories  of  the  goat  still  rankling  in  her  mind. 
"Go  home  yourself — if  you  want  to  live  and 
die  without  a  husband!" 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  die  without  one  if — if  I  stay," 
retorted  Isobel  with  almost  a  wail.  "I — I  don't 
want  to  see  any  witch." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  her  mouth 
when  the  mother  grasped  her  by  the  arm  and 
pointed  to  the  archway  leading  from  the  campo 
santo.  "Look!" 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  15 

What  they  saw  was  the  figure  of  a  woman 
clad  in  the  usual  black,  with  her  mantilla 
twisted  like  a  monk's  cowl  about  her  head.  As 
she  walked  she  held  one  raised  hand  before  her, 
all  the  while  mumbling  softly  to  herself.  When 
she  came  nearer  they  saw  that  her  feet  were 
bare. 

"Don't  try  to  speak  to  her,"  stammered  Isobel 
in  a  perfect  agony  of  fear.  "Remember  the  evil 
eye." 

"Chist!"  said  the  mother,  in  her  excitement 
indiscretely  baring  a  dangerous  secret,  "I  have 
practiced  the  art  myself;  I  know  how  to  deal 
with  witches,"  and  making  the  devil's  horns  with 
one  hand,  and  rapidly  repeating  cryptic  phrases 
she  stepped  directly  in  the  path  of  the  approach 
ing  one. 

The  witch  continued  to  advance.  The  moon 
came  out  from  a  cloud  which  heretofore  had 
obscured  it,  and  at  that  moment  her  upheld 
hand  pushed  back  her  mantilla. 

As  the  face  came  into  view,  Isobel  gave  a 
muffled  shriek.  The  witch  was  Rita  Avila! 

The  shock  to  the  mother  was  almost  as  great, 
but  indignation  soon  overcame  all  other  emo 
tions.  "You — you  little  wretch!"  she  spluttered. 
"What  are  you  doing  here  this  time  of  night?" 
quite  ignoring  the  fact  that  her  own  presence 
might  also  need  an  explanation. 

Rita  did  not  answer  her.  Indeed,  she  did 
not  seem  to  hear  her  at  all,  but  turned  a  mild 


16  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

and  vacant  stare  first  on  mother  and  then  on 
daughter.  "The  evil  eye!  The  evil  eye!"  cried 
Isobel,  her  knees  as  well  as  her  lips  trembling. 
"Mother  she's  looking  at  ME!"  and  turning  pre 
cipitately,  with  her  skirts  held  high  above  her 
knees,  she  ran  terror-stricken  to  her  home. 

The  mother  paused  for  one  irresolute  mo 
ment,  but  Rita  now  was  not  only  looking  at 
her,  but  in  some  occult  manner,  it  seemed  to  the 
Senora,  fairly  through  her.  It  wasn't  human. 
Utterly  defeated,  Senora  Montoyo  turned  and 
waddled  in  her  daughter's  wake  as  fast  as  her 
handicap  of  flesh  would  let  her. 

When  they  were  gone,  Rita,  gentle  somnam 
bulist  that  she  was,  in  her  visions  still  looking 
for  her  lover,  walked  past  the  church  front  then, 
returning  to  her  hut  and  bed,  finished  her  dream 
curled  up  like  a  little  kitten  among  her  ragged 
coverings. 

After  Senora  Montoyo  had  reached  her  own 
pallet,  she  had  plenty  of  time  to  think  over  the 
situation,  and  although  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  Rita  was  walking  in  her  sleep  she  was  not 
slow  in  perceiving  the  advantages  to  herself  in 
the  present  situation.  So  the  girl  presumed  to 
think  that  she  could  practice  the  perilous  art 
of  witchcraft!  Very  well,  let  her  take  the  con 
sequences.  The  penalty  of  witchcraft,  both  in 
the  civic  code  and  in  the  popular  wind,  was 
death;  that  is,  if  it  could  be  proven  that  the 
practices  were  malignant.  The  Senora  prided 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  17 

herself  that  she  could  attend  to  a  little  detail 
like  that. 

At  breakfast  she  told  her  husband,  with 
many  an  "Oh"  and  shrugs  of  the  shoulders  and 
openings  of  the  eyes,  a  marvelous  tale  how 
upon  being  wakened  by  mysterious  noises  in  the 
skies  at  the  hour  of  midnight  she  had  seen  Rita 
Avila  fly  from  her  patio  on  the  back  of  the  goat, 
and  later  had  seen  her  return  when  the  cock 
crew,  just  before  dawn. 

The  Don  Manuel  was  of  a  generation  when 
everyone  believed  in  witchcraft  more  or  less, 
nevertheless  he  was  nobody's  fool,  and  had 
lived  with  the  Senora  Montoyo  long  enough  to 
have  learned  some  of  her  little  ways,  so  he 
unfeelingly  remarked  that  if  she  continued  to 
eat  as  many  enchiladas  for  supper  as  she  had 
been,  the  next  time  she'd  probably  be  seeing 
Rita  riding  whales. 

However,  if  her  own  husband  was  unsym 
pathetic,  other  people  were  not. 

The  two-year  old  baby  of  Pedro  the  Papago 
was  to  be  used  for  the  Christ  Child  in  a  tableau 
at  the  Mission  on  Christmas  Eve.  To  Maria,  the 
mother,  who  lived  near  by,  she  told  the  tale. 
"And  if  the  Evil  Eye  should  fall  on  thy  beau 
tiful  boy,  he  would  die  in  the  cradle  on  the 
Noche  Buena.  We  must  rid  the  town  of  her  be 
fore  she  causes  pestilence  and  other  dreadful 
things." 

Good  report  goes  limping,  but  evil  certainly 


18  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

has  wings.  By  noon  every  Mexican  laborer  and 
Papago  neophite  at  San  Xavier  was  talking  of 
the  dreadful  story  of  how  Rita  Avila  had  become 
a  witch;  how  Ana  Aguilar  had  pains  in  the  back 
because  Rita  had  a  wax  image  of  her  into  which 
she  stuck  pins;  how  Isidro  Salazar's  pigs  had 
run  away  to  the  desert  because  she  had  be 
witched  mem  with  raven  feathers,  and  how  she 
rode  through  the  air  every  night  on  her  devil's 
goat  to  meet  Rafael  Valdez. 

All  this  may  sound  very  silly  in  an  age  we 
at  least  believe  to  be  sophisticated,  but  in  the 
eighteenth  century  the  suspicion  of  witchcraft 
carried  fateful  consequences. 

Rita's  first  knowledge  of  the  dreadful  accusa 
tion  that  had  been  brought  against  her  came 
from  her  father,  who,  having  seen  his  daughter 
walk  in  her  sleep,  not  only  believed  that  Rita 
practiced  the  illicit  art,  but  took  much  pride 
in  the  fact.  The  girl  listened  first  in  bewilder 
ment  and  then  in  real  terror  to  his  words,  know 
ing  well  enough  to  what  it  might  lead.  In  vain 
she  protested.  Sanchez  only  grinned  at  her 
and  said:  "Oh,  thou  cunning  one,  thy  grand 
mother,  too,  was  a  witch  and  you  look  just  like 
her.  But  be  sly  and  act  discreetly.  Turn  all 
thy  arts  on  that  she-mountain  of  flesh  next  door 
before  she  gets  a  chance  at  thee.  Give  her  boils 
on  the  back  and  put  a  wart  on  the  nose  of  that 
brat  of  hers.  I'd  teach  'em  to  fool  with  one  who 
is  bruja!" 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  19 

That  night  the  Seiiora  induced  Maria  the 
Papago  to  sleep  in  her  house,  and  at  midnight 
with  their  scared,  round  eyes  peering  over  the 
dividing  adobe  wall,  and  with  fists  tightly 
clenched  in  devil's  horns,  they  saw  Rita  with 
the  goat  at  her  heels  aimlessly  walk  up  and 
down.  As  was  the  case  the  night  before,  the 
sky  was  full  of  passing  clouds;  and  the  girl 
being  first  in  light  and  then  in  shade,  that  simple 
fact  gave  ample  grounds  for  tales  for  the  mor 
row  of  how  Rita  could  make  herself  invisible 
at  will. 

The  next  afternoon  the  Sefiora  sent  a  mes 
sage  to  the  alcalde  at  Tucson  saying  that  the 
Papago  Indians  believed  that  there  was  a  girl 
at  San  Xavier  who  was  practicing  witchcraft, 
and  as  there  really  seemed  to  be  some  evidence 
to  support  the  theory,  she  suggested  that  he 
come  down  the  next  morning  and  investigate. 

With  witnesses  to  testify  to  Rita's  nocturnal 
performance  as  well  as  the  evil  consequences 
that  had  come  to  the  village,  there  was  needed 
only  one  thing  more  to  utterly  condemn  her, 
and  that  would  be  to  find  some  sort  of  witch 
paraphernalia  in  her  home.  This  might  be  any 
thing  from  a  wax  image  stuck  with  pins  to  oc 
cult  herbs  for  a  devil's  brew.  The  possession  of 
raven  feathers,  the  burning  of  which  would  sum 
mon  El  Demonio  himself,  would  be  conclusive 
evidence. 

Therefore  on  that  night  the  Sefiora  invited 


20  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

no  witnesses  to  her  house.  She  did  not  want 
any,  not  even  her  daughter,  for  after  the  town 
was  asleep,  and  old  Sanchez's  sterterous  breath 
ing  had  joined  its  harmonies  with  the  vocal 
exertions  of  Isobel  and  Don  Manuel,  the  Senora 
took  from  her  own  chest  a  bunch  of  raven 
feathers,  and  after  sticking  them  into  her  bosom 
climbed  heavily  and  laboriously  over  the  adobe 
wall,  and  with  elephantine  caution  tiptoed  to 
the  Avila  door.  After  satisfying  herself  that 
Rita  and  her  father  were  asleep,  she  entered 
and  hung  the  bunch  of  raven  feathers  under  a 
poncho  of  Sanchez  on  a  peg  on  the  wall.  Then 
in  the  serene  and  peaceful  consciousness  of  a 
deed  well  done,  she  returned  to  her  home,  and 
soon  the  trio  of  vocal  exertions  in  the  neighbor 
hood  became  a  quartette. 

The  next  morning  the  Senora  contrived  to 
have  Don  Manuel  called  to  the  hills  to  look  for 
cattle.  A  little  later,  when  he  was  well  out  of 
the  way,  while  Rita  was  making  tortillas  at  her 
out-of-door  fire,  the  girl  saw  Don  Diego  Cald- 
eron,  the  alcalde  from  Tucson,  alight  at  the 
door  of  the  casa  de  Montoyo,  and  after  a  brief 
conference  with  the  Senora  and  her  daughter, 
the  three  start  for  her  own  home. 

To  Rita  the  Senora  always  meant  trouble, 
and  when  Isobel  was  with  her  it  simply  meant 
more  trouble,  but  as  the  alcalde  was  coming 
too,  she  must  not  disgrace  Rafael  by  looking 
shabby,  Her  dress  might  be  faded,  but  her 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  21 

shoes,  a  gift  from  her  sweetheart,  were  new, 
and  within  the  house  she  had  a  filagree  pin. 
She  would  adorn  herself  with  ceremony. 

The  impulse  was  Rita's  salvation,  for  when 
she  opened  the  door  the  wind  blew  the  poncho 
from  its  peg,  and  there  grinning  like  a  death's 
head,  were  the  raven  feathers — indubitable 
proofs  of  her  witchcraft.  They  were  not  bigger 
than  a  baby's  fist,  it  is  true,  but  they  were  tied 
witchwise  with  yellow  silk  and  as  deadly  to  the 
girl  as  poison. 

Rita's  wits  were  as  nimble  as  her  shapely 
feet.  By  some  black  art  the  Senora  Montoyo 
had  gotten  the  feathers  where  they  were,  and 
their  discovery  by  the  chief  magistrate  of  the 
country  could  mean  but  one  thing — her  con 
viction  and  possibly  her  death.  She  was 
trapped — lost,  unless  she  could  hide  the  feathers 
before  the  people  entered. 

She  swung  the  door  to  and  fastened  it,  and 
in  the  half  darkness  looked  around  for  a  hiding 
place.  Already  there  was  a  knocking  at  the 
door,  and  she  thrust  the  diabolical  feathers  into 
the  salt  box  on  the  table. 

"What  is  it?"  she  called,  with  her  hands 
pressing  against  her  heart  to  stop  its  pounding. 

"It's  I,  Don  Diego,  the  alcalde,"  came  an 
answering  voice,  big  with  authority. 

Rita  voiced  the  old  feminine  defense  for 
gaining  time.  "In — in  a  minute.  I— I'm  dress 
ing." 


22  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

The  feathers  could  not  possibly  escape  dis 
covery  in  their  present  place.  She  dug  them 
out  frantically  and  looked  hopelessly  around. 

Isobel's  voice  came  through  the  door  in  acid 
tones.  "Dressing,  indeed !  One  would  think  she 
were  the  daughter  of  a  hacendado!" 

"We  cannot  wait,"  insisted  Don  Manuel. 

"You  must.     I—" 

But  even  before  she  could  finish  her  sen 
tence,  the  Senora,  who  had  pushed  herself  in 
front  of  the  alcalde,  opened  the  door. 

Rita's  face  blanched,  and  thrusting  her  hands 
behind  her  she  backed  into  a  darkened  corner. 
Don  Diego,  as  became  an  alcalde,  gently  but 
firmly  shoved  the  Senora  into  her  place  behind 
him,  but  nevertheless  was  not  the  first  to  enter 
the  room,  for  Nicolas  taking  small  account  of 
dons  darted  between  his  legs  and  danced  imp 
ishly  around  the  room. 

Back  of  the  Montoyos  stood  gaping  Mexican 
and  Papago  women,  and  still  behind  them  stood 
besotted  old  Sanchez,  who  leered  at  the  crowd 
with  saturnine  grins,  assured  that  Rita,  with 
the  devil's  help,  could  circumvent  them  all. 

Don  Diego  cleared  his  throat,  and  after  a 
pompous  speech  announced  he  had  come  to 
search  the  house  for  evidences  of  witchcraft. 

Rita  looked  appealingly  for  someone  that 
might  show  her  mercy,  but  in  every  face  she 
saw,  unless  it  were  that  of  Don  Diego  himself, 
the  look  of  stupid,  fanatical  cruelty — the  cruelty 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  23 

that  lights  faggots  under  the  feet  of  little  chil 
dren.  She  took  a  step  further  back  into  the 
shadowy  corner  and  with  closed  eyes  whispered 
a  little  prayer  to  her  own  Santa  Rita. 

This  is  a  scoffing  generation,  yet  who  are 
we  to  be  hypercritical,  for  if  Rita  believed  there 
was  a  miraculous  answer  to  her  appeal  she  had 
reason  enough.  Even  with  the  silent  movement 
of  her  lips,  in  spite  of  the  fact  there  was  no  one 
behind  her,  there  was  a  tugging  at  the  feathers 
and  then,  an  instant  later,  they  were  mys 
teriously  taken  out  of  her  hand. 

The  Senora  ran  quickly  to  the  poncho  which 
Rita  had  again  hung  on  the  wall,  and  when  she 
found  nothing  under  it  she  and  the  other  women 
searched  the  house,  while  Don  Diego  stood  by 
trying,  we  may  imagine,  with  some  difficulty, 
to  make  himself  believe  he  was  engaged  in  a 
pious  duty.  For  a  full  half  hour  the  searching 
went  on.  Under  the  grinding  stones  they  looked, 
in  the  salt  box,  in  the  basket  of  meal — every 
where  that  would  offer  a  hiding  place,  but  the 
house  was  as  free  from  witch's  tools  as  the 
altar  of  a  church. 

After  they  had  gone,  Rita  sat  down  upon 
the  earthen  floor,  put  her  arms  around  Nicolas' 
neck  and  cried  softly  from  relief.  While  her 
ears  were  resting  against  his  fuzzy  jaws  she 
found  herself  wondering  what  he  was  chewing 
on  with  such  persistency.  And  when  she  looked, 
behold,  the  last  of  the  raven  feathers  was  dis 
appearing  down  his  throat. 


24 

First  Rita  laughed  and  hugged  the  goat 
tighter  than  ever,  then  came  a  thought  that  was 
most  disquieting.  If  they  were  witch  feathers, 
what  would  be  the  effect  upon  the  goat  that  had 
eaten  them — a  goat,  too,  that  not  only  looked 
like  the  devil,  but  had  been  named  for  him  and 
baptized  with  the  dregs  of  wine? 

If  character  in  goats,  as  in  people,  may  be 
deduced  from  actions,  Rita  that  day  had  reason 
enough  to  believe  that  Nicolas  was  indeed  pos 
sessed  with  the  spirit  of  the  Arch  Fiend.  In  the 
afternoon  the  Senora  Montoyo  washed  her  best 
skirt  in  preparation  for  the  Christmas  fiesta 
and  spread  it  out  to  dry.  Nicolas  ate  four  yards 
of  lace  off  it,  then  returning  home  in  Rita's 
absence  accidentally  tipped  over  an  uncorked 
jug  of  sweet  wine,  and  having  been  taught  in 
an  earlier  period  to  drink  from  a  bottle,  and 
evidently  desiring  a  little  liquid  refreshment  to 
moisten  his  lingerie,  sucked  away  at  the  mouth 
of  the  jug  until  he  got  as  drunk  as  a  lord, 
and  staggering  hilariously  to  the  mission  door 
arrived  just  in  time  to  butt  over  the  Senora 
Montoyo  as  she  came  ostensibly  to  confess  her 
sins  to  the  padre,  but  really  to  drop  a  few  hints 
into  the  reverend  ear  concerning  Rita.  Paren 
thetically  it  may  here  be  stated  that  after  she 
and  the  goat  were  through  with  each  other,  the 
Senora's  rancor  against  Rita  had  not  lessened 
nor  had  she  diminished  her  list  of  sins  for  the 
confessional. 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  25 

Altogether  it  had  been  a  very  bad  day  for 
the  Senora  Montoyo.  She  had  failed  in  her 
attempt  to  convict  Rita  before  the  alcalde,  she 
had  been  insulted  by  the  girl's  goat,  and  when 
she  had  attempted  to  repeat  her  slanderous 
tales  to  old  Padre  Narciso,  the  priest  had  said 
very  plain  things  to  her  concerning  the  sinful- 
ness  of  a  loose  and  malicious  tongue.  Worst 
of  all,  when  she  returned  to  her  home  old 
Sanchez  leaned  leeringly  over  the  adobe  wall 
and  asked  her  if  the  wart  his  girl  was  going 
to  put  upon  her  nose  had  started  yet,  and  ex 
plained  that  if  her  squint-eyed  Isobel  ever  did 
succeed  in  getting  a  husband,  her  children 
would  all  be  club-footed. 

Fairly  cold  with  hatred  and  anger,  the 
Senora  went  at  once  to  see  Papago  Pablo  and 
Maria.  She  had  a  good  imagination,  and  she 
called  to  her  aid  all  the  tales  of  witchcraft  she 
had  ever  heard,  applying  them,  of  course,  to 
Rita.  She  repeated  her  former  story,  how,  if 
the  girl  fastened  her  eyes  on  the  little  boy 
Josito,  he  would  surely  die  when  they  put  him 
in  the  manger  on  Christmas  eve;  how  Pedro 
Galvez's  little  daughter  even  then  lay  sick  with 
a  fever  Rita  had  given  her,  and,  most  damning 
accusation  of  all,  how  she  had  been  seen  talk 
ing  with  two  prowling  Apaches  the  night  before, 
and  was  doubtless  planning  to  aid  them  in  a 
raid  upon  San  Xavier. 

What  should  they,  the  Papagoes,  do?     The 


26  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

Senora  shrugged  her  shoulders.  That  was  for 
them  to  decide,  only  when  a  witch  in  Magdelina 
had  plotted  with  a  hostile  tribe,  the  Papagoes 
had  properly  stoned  her. 

We  need  not  dwell  upon  the  steps  by  which 
the  Senora's  suggestion  followed  her  stories 
through  the  valley,  but  it  went  fast  enough. 
That  night  Pablo  met  with  a  dozen  of  the  most 
irresponsible  Papagoes  and  Mexicans  of  the 
place,  when  plans  were  made  to  catch  Rita  at 
her  home  the  next  afternoon — Christmas  eve — 
just  at  dark,  and  not  only  rid  the  town  of  her 
but  of  the  goat  as  well,  which  poor  Marta  in 
sisted  had  been  a  perfectly  good  goat  until  Rita 
had  bewitched  him. 

However,  Nicolas,  in  spite  of  his  bewitch 
ments,  seemed  to  have  no  more  premonition  of 
the  threatened  disaster  than  had  his  mistress, 
and  throughout  most  of  the  next  day  pursued 
his  usual  jocund,  impish  program.  Late  in  the 
afternoon,  fairly  courting  destruction,  it  would 
seem,  he  wandered  down  to  his  earlier  home— 
the  jacal  of  Pablo  and  Maria,  but  as  these 
worthies  were  at  that  moment  rounding  up  their 
fellow  conspirators,  he  found  no  one  to  receive 
him  but  his  former  playfellow,  the  little  two- 
year  old  Josito,  who  had  been  left  alone,  quite 
contented  in  the  possession  of  a  chicken  bone 
which  could  be  sucked  indefinitely. 

Announcing  his  presence  by  butting  open  the 
door,  Nicolas  was  received  joyfully  and,  after 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  27 

consuming  two  candles  and  a  string  of  red 
peppers,  started  away  as  unceremoniously  as 
he  had  come.  Josito,  who  had  taken  placidly 
enough  his  parents'  departure,  felt  it  was  quite 
another  matter  to  be  deserted  by  a  goat,  and 
as  Nicolas  wouldn't  stay  with  him  he  went  with 
Nicolas,  catching  hold  of  the  animal's  tail  and 
striking  out  manfully  on  a  pair  of  sturdy  legs. 

After  pausing  a  moment  to  look  tentatively 
down  the  path  to  the  Avila's,  the  goat,  possibly 
feeling  the  need  of  a  spiritual  uplift,  headed 
toward  the  mission.  Straight  to  the  main  en 
trance  went  the  two,  and  as  there  was  no  one 
to  stop  them,  in  they  walked,  and  after  sniffing 
suspiciously  at  the  stale  odor  of  incense,  Nicolas 
led  the  way  through  the  little  door  and  up  the 
long,  narrow  stairway  to  the  tower,  with  the 
baby  puffing  and  pulling  himself  up  behind. 

In  the  meantime  the  plotters  had  gathered 
in  a  sequestered  spot  in  the  river  bottom  and, 
just  as  the  sun  disappeared  behind  the  western 
hills,  with  the  Senora  Montoyo  following  dis 
cretely  in  the  rear,  they  started  for  the  Avila 
casita. 

Although  every  precaution  had  been  taken 
for  secrecy,  in  some  way  old  Sanchez  had  gotten 
wind  of  the  affair,  and  had  hurried  home  full 
of  the  pleasant  news,  confident  that  all  he 
needed  to  do  was  to  put  Rita  on  her  guard, 
when  she  would  not  only  be  able  to  defend  her 
self  but  to  turn  the  tables  on  her  enemies  as 
well. 


28  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

Poor  Rita !  After  her  former  deliverance  she 
felt  that  her  troubles  were  quite  over,  and  with 
her  dress  freshly  washed  and  the  filigree  pin 
at  her  throat,  at  the  moment  of  her  father's 
arrival  was  looking  eagerly  down  the  road 
toward  Tucson  to  catch  a  first  glimpse  of  Rafael. 
Now,  as  she  listened  to  the  appalling  news,  told 
with  leers  and  grins,  it  was  again  the  face  of 
death  she  saw  instead  of  the  smiling  counte 
nance  of  her  lover. 

"Mira!"  cried  old  Sanchez,  pointing  down  the 
path  between  the  creosote  bushes,  "there  they 
are — Pablo  and  Maria  and  the  whole  wormy 
brood!  Get  your  goat  and  fly  at  them!  Put 
humps  on  their  backs !  Scratch  out  their  eyes !" 

Rita  was  a  resourceful  little  body  as  well  as 
brave.  She  had  been  through  more  than  one 
Apache  raid  and  knew  not  only  how  to  fight, 
but  how  to  hide. 

One  thing  was  certain — her  only  chance  for 
safety  was  to  get  to  the  mission  building  and 
tell  her  story  to  her  good  friend  Padre  Narciso. 
However,  that  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
and  among  the  mesquites  and  creosote  bushes 
that  intervened  she  could  see  her  enemies 
spreading  out  fan-wise. 

Even  as  she  looked,  a  half-grown  Papago 
boy  peered  at  her  from  behind  a  bunch  of 
cactus,  frantically  making  de_vil's  horns  as  she 
looked  at  him,  and  immediately  afterwards 
whistling  shrilly.  The  signal  was  answered  by 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  29 

excited  calls  from  the  now  rapidly  approach 
ing  neophytes. 

Rita  disappeared  into  the  house,  then  darted 
out  the  back  door,  and  keeping  the  hut  between 
herself  and  the  boy  ran  at  top  speed  until  she 
was  enveloped  in  bushes.  Now,  as  stealthily  as 
any  Indian  she  began  making  a  long  detour, 
shivering  with  fear  as  more  than  once,  in  the 
distance,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  skulking 
form,  armed  with  stones  or  a  club,  making  his 
way  towards  her  home. 

Darkness  all  but  obscured  her  when,  panting 
like  a  spent  deer,  she  reached  the  rear  entrance 
to  the  mission  patio.  Pushing  her  weight  against 
it,  it  swung  open,  but  instead  of  finding  the 
courtyard  full  of  people  preparing  for  the  serv 
ices  of  Christmas  eve  there  was  not  a  soul  in 
sight;  even  the  kitchen  and  the  open-air  ovens 
seemed  to  be  deserted. 

She  hurried  into  the  church,  but  even  there, 
though  candles  were  lighted  and  the  crude  prop 
erties  for  the  Christmas  tableau  were  in  place, 
there  were  neither  priests,  altar  boys  nor 
sacristan. 

Down  to  the  main  entrance  she  ran,  and 
then  was  stopped  by  a  quick  return  of  terror, 
for  through  the  closed  double  doors  came  the 
shouts  of  angry,  excited  people,  the  noise  of 
hoof  beats,  and  then  the  startling  report  of  a 
musket. 

As   she   listened   shouted   phrases   detached 


30  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

themselves  from  the  mingled  dissonance  of  the 
mob.  "  'Twas  Rita  Avila !  She  did  it  all !  A 
witch — she's  a  witch!  Find  her!  Stone  her!" 

At  the  girl's  right  was  the  little  door  which 
opened  on  the  tower  stairs,  and  now,  not  daring 
to  look  further  for  Padre  Narciso,  she  slipped 
through  it  and  ascended  the  long  flight. 

Outside  the  tumult  waxed,  for  more  was 
happening  than  the  Senora  Montoyo  had 
planned.  Quite  inadvertently  she  had  told  the 
truth  to  Maria  when  she  had  said  that  there 
were  two  Apaches  about.  However,  instead  of 
being  there  to  plan  for  a  raid,  they  were  simply 
rather  presumptuous  beggars  who  purposed  to 
turn  to  their  own  advantage  the  white  man's 
season  of  gift  making.  After  spending  the  day 
further  down  the  valley  they  returned  just  in 
time  to  see  a  mingled  gathering  of  Christian 
whites  and  Papagoes  celebrating  the  birthday 
of  their  god  of  love  by  hunting  down  and  try 
ing  to  slay  a  girl  for  walking  in  her  sleep. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  thoughts  of 
these  bronzed  horsemen  of  the  mountains  at 
the  sight  of  the  denizens  of  San  Xavier  running 
madly  about  with  stones  and  clubs  in  their 
hands,  it  did  not  deter  them  from  their  errand. 

They  stopped  at  the  house  of  the  Montoyos, 
and  as  there  was  no  one  there  to  forbid  them 
helped  themselves  to  a  knife  apiece  and  a 
couple  of  gaudy  rebosas. 

At   the   Avila's   place   was   old   Sanchez,   so 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  31 

the  marauders  went  on  to  the  jacal  of  Pablo 
the  Papago  and  entered  the  door  left  open  by 
Nicolas.  The  only  thing  that  appealed  to  them 
was  a  sack  of  ground  corn,  which  they  took 
and  hurried  out. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Maria,  becoming 
apprehensive  for  the  safety  of  her  Josito,  started 
back  to  her  jacal.  Through  the  fast  gathering 
darkness  she  saw  the  Apaches  leave  her  door, 
one  of  them  carrying  a  sack  in  her  arms,  and 
not  unnaturally  thought  it  was  her  baby.  For 
a  moment  she  halted,  stunned  by  the  sight,  then 
screamed  with  all  her  might.  The  Apaches 
jumped  to  their  horses  and  rode  away. 

Attracted  by  her  cries  other  Papagoes  and 
Mexicans  joined  her  as  she  ran  to  her  hut. 
When  she  found  that  Josito  was  really  gone 
she  dropped  limply  to  the  ground,  and  gave  her 
self  up  to  lamentations.  A  minute  or  two  later 
Pablo,  accompanied  by  the  Serior  Montoyo, 
arrived.  The  Papago  was  for  the  moment  al 
most  as  much  overcome  as  his  wife,  but  Don 
Manuel  was  a  man  of  action.  Calling  for  horse 
men  and  mounts,  he  with  Pablo  and  others  was 
soon  spurring  hard  through  the  gathering  dark 
ness  after  the  fleeing  Apaches. 

When  Rita,  after  climbing  the  long  stairs, 
reached  the  tower,  by  the  glow  of  the  torches 
from  the  patio  she  saw  the  baby  Josito  with  his 
head  pillowed  on  the  goat's  side  and  both  asleep. 

She  was  too  tired  to  wonder  much  how  the 


32  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

child  happened  to  be  there,  but  longing  for  the 
comfort  of  human  touch,  tenderly  took  him  in 
her  arms,  and  the  little  hands  that  went  so 
softly  and  sleepily  about  her  neck  must  have 
touched  as  well  her  heart,  for  she  lay  down 
with  him  crying  softly. 

And  now  that  we  have  found  them  so  safe 
a  sanctuary,  we  may  see  how  it  fared  with 
Rafael  Valdez.  It  was  a  half  hour  after  the 
departure  of  the  Senor  Montoyo  that  he  arrived 
at  Rita's  door,  his  pocket  heavy  with  the  fifty 
pesos  from  the  alcalde,  his  heart  light  with  the 
thought  that  with  all  this  wonderful  wealth  he 
could  marry  Rita  at  once. 

Old  Sanchez  met  him  with  a  face  lined  with 
cunning  grins.  Oh,  yes,  the  ancient  said,  the 
Senora  Montoyo  had  got  the  riff-raff  of  the  town 
to  try  to  stone  Rita — as  though  they  could  really 
hurt  one  who  was  bruja!  But  she  was  fooling 
them!  Where  was  she  now?  Quien  sabe? 
Flying  through  the  air  with  Nicolas  to  some 
place  where  she  would  make  a  fine  brew  for 
those  who  had  dared  to  affront  her. 

Almost  crazed  by  his  fears,  but  unable  to  get 
anything  further  from  the  grinning  dotard, 
Rafael  galloped  swiftly  to  the  mission. 

When  the  knot  of  people  who  still  stood 
before  the  main  entrance  saw  him,  their  mouths 
opened  like  the  mouth  of  a  fish  on  a  hook,  and 
they  began  to  back  away  into  the  darkness. 
Rafael,  his  lips  like  chalk  but  his  eyes  like  coals 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  33 

of  fire,  jumped  from  his  horse  and  strode  toward 
them,  torn  between  fears  for  his  sweetheart  and 
his  terrible  rage  against  them.  "You  would 
stone  Rita  Avila,  you  scum!"  Then  seeing  the 
Senora  Montoyo  slipping  backward  through  the 
people,  he  caught  her  by  the  wrist.  "So  this  was 
your  work — you  cat!"  He  shook  her  savagely. 
"Quick!"  he  said,  "tell  me  what  you  have  done 
with  her." 

Padre  Narciso,  who  had  just  come  from  the 
grief-stricken  Maria,  now  within  the  church,  laid 
his  old,  white  hand  between  them.  "My  son!" 
It  was  the  voice  of  authority  as  well  as  the  voice 
of  love. 

Rafael  loosened  his  hold  on  the  woman,  but 
looked  pleadingly  at  the  gray-haired  priest. 
"Do  you  know  what  they  would  have  done  with 
her?" 

The  priest  bowed  his  head.  "To  my  shame. 
Oh,  my  people,  that  I  have  been  so  poor  a 
shepherd  that  such  a  thing  could  have  happened 
here!" 

"But  where  is  she?"  pleaded  the  artist. 

The  padre's  face  was  full  of  sympathy.  "I 
only  learned  of  the  matter  when  this  crowd 
reached  here,  and  at  once  started  Kalka,  the 
Pima  trailer,  to  see  if  he  could  find  her.  You 
have  been  to  her  house?" 

Rafael  had  not  finished  his  reply  when  the 
Pima,  who  was  carrying  a  torch,  came  to  them 
through  the  uneasy  crowd.  "Too  dark.  Can't 


34  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

see  much,"  said  the  Indian.  "Think  maybe 
Senorita's  tracks  in  patio."  Together  the  three 
went  to  the  big  courtyard  where  the  trailer 
pointed  to  the  ground.  "New  shoes,  new  heels ! 
Think  maybe  those  be  her!  She  go  inside!"  and 
he  pointed  through  the  priest's  robing  room. 

The  men  filed  in  with  white,  fear-lined  faces, 
where  they  saw  poor  Maria  kneeling  before  the 
empty  manger. 

Rafael  swept  the  room  with  frantic  eyes. 
"Padre!"  he  said,  clutching  at  the  priest's  sleeve. 
"In  the  name  of  God,  tell  me  where  to  look!" 

There  was  another  thunder  of  hoofs  outside, 
and  Don  Manuel  with  Pablo  the  Papago  and  the 
other  riders  burst  through  the  door.  "More 
witchcraft,"  cried  a  Mexican  wildly.  "We 
caught  the  Apaches,  but  by  sorcery  the  boy  was 
turned  into  a  sack  of  corn!" 

At  this  Rafael  walked  up  to  Don  Manuel 
with  hands  that  opened  and  shut  dangerously. 
"If  there  is  a  witch  in  this  town,  it  is  your  wife. 
She  tried  to  have  Rita  Avila  stoned.  If  the  girl 
is  not  dead  now  it  is  not  her  fault.  Make  her 
tell  us  what  she  had  done  with  her,  or,  before 
God,  I'll  choke  it  out  of  her." 

He  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  when  a 
frantic  scream  came  from  the  Senora  Montoyo, 
and  as  they  all  looked  they  saw  her  pointing 
wildly  overhead.  "She  is  flying  through  the  air 
with  Josito !  See,  there  is  the  goat,  too !" 

All  the  people  turned  their  eyes   to  where 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  35 

she  pointed,  and  with  whitened  faces  stared 
and  crossed  themselves.  High  in  the  air,  almost 
over  their  heads  now,  they  saw  Rita,  not  flying, 
but  walking  in  her  sleep  along  the  beam  that 
led  to  the  place  in  the  dome  where  she  had 
watched  Rafael  at  his  work.  As  the  Senora  had 
said,  in  her  arms  she  carried  the  little  Josito, 
and  in  front  of  her  trotted  the  goat,  swaggering 
as  devil-may-care  as  you  please.  Scarcely  wider 
than  Rita's  little  feet  was  the  beam,  and  in  the 
church's  dim  shadows  it  was  no  wonder  that 
the  people  thought  she  trod  on  air. 

Never  hesitating,  and  with  her  eyes  gently 
staring  into  vacancy,  she  walked  until  she 
reached  the  dome. 

Many  started  to  cry  out,  but  Padre  Narciso 
held  up  his  hand.  "Quiet!"  he  said,  "and  down 
on  your  knees  to  God,  who  by  this  miracle  is 
returning  the  baby  in  the  arms  of  the  girl  you 
persecuted,  even  as  the  people  persecuted  the 
Christ  at  Jerusalem." 

One  long  minute  went  by  and  then  another. 
Rita  looked  vacantly  about  her,  and  then  as 
though  unable  to  find  the  object  of  her  search, 
turned  and  again  passed  over  the  people's  heads 
while  they  stared  trembling. 

The  beam  ended  at  the  gallery,  over  the  en 
trance,  and  from  there  she  passed  to  the  tower 
stairs  and  down  them  into  the  body  of  the 
church,  where  the  villagers  with  fearful  down 
cast  eyes  made  a  path  for  her. 


36  THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 

Here  she  paused  for  a  moment  irresolute, 
and  then  walked  slowly,  not  to  Rafael,  who 
stood  looking  at  her  with  his  heart  in  his  face, 
and  not  to  the  kindly  old  padre,  but  to  the  altar 
of  the  Mother  of  Sorrows,  where  she  sank  slowly 
down  and  rested  her  head  against  the  wall  as 
though  she  were  very  tired. 

For  a  while,  with  closed  eyes,  she  seemed  in 
dreamless  sleep.  When  she  opened  them  again 
she  was  looking  into  the  face  of  her  lover,  who 
was  bending  over  her.  She  gazed  at  him  still 
in  that  borderland  that  lies  between  waking  and 
sleeping.  "I  am  sure  I  dreamed  I  heard  the 
beats  of  your  horse's  hoofs,"  she  said.  Then 
waking  realities  came  back  to  her,  and  she 
caught  his  hands.  "Tell  me  that  the  other  ter 
rible  things  were  dreams,  too,  and  that  you  only, 
Rafaelito,  are  real." 

A  half  hour  later,  perhaps  it  was,  after  all 
these  things  had  happened,  with  little  Josito 
now  in  the  manger,  and  the  people  gathered 
around  looking  at  the  tableau  of  the  Holy  Night 
when  a  bell  sounded.  Rafael  and  Rita,  who  had 
wandered  into  the  moon-lit  patio,  heard  it  and 
looked  comprehendingly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"It's  midnight!  Christmas  eve!"  said  the  girl, 
"It's  the  hour  when  all  the  beasts  kneel  down. 
Oh,  Rafael,  if  Nicolas  would  only  kneel  with 
the  others,  maybe  his  witchcraft  would  leave 
him." 

The  lover  quickly  accepted  the  comforting 


THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA  37 

thought.  "I  saw  him  in  the  robing  room  as  we 
came  through,"  he  said,  "and  if  he  won't  kneel 
otherwise  I'd  best  hold  him  down.  My  brother 
converted  a  heathen  Yaqui  once  that  way." 

They  hurried  back  through  the  open  door, 
and  truly  as  the  stars  shine  over  us,  the  goat 
was  there  and  down  on  his  knees,  and  what  was 
more,  his  head  was  bowed  to  the  floor  under  the 
padre's  case  of  papers. 

"Madre  de  Dios!"  cried  Rafael,  suddenly  hor 
rified,  "he's  eating  a  prayerbook!" 

He  started  to  take  it  from  him,  but  Rita,  hav 
ing  a  comprehending  heart,  restrained  him. 

"As  you  value  your  salvation,  don't  stop 
him,  Rafael.  Learned  men  like  you  and  the 
padre  can  read  their  prayers,  I  can  be  told  them, 
but  how  can  poor  Nicolas  get  them  save  he  eats 
them?  He  got  witchcraft  through  his  stomach, 
why  should  he  not  in  the  same  way  secure  sal 
vation?" 


WAITING  FOR 
TONTI 

A  STORY  OF  THE  CLIFF- 
DWELLERS 

OF  course  the  entire  affair  could  be  ex 
plained  by  mental  suggestion.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Rae  had  received  a  book  by  parcel  post 
that  dipped  into  transmigration,  metempsy 
chosis  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  everyone 
in  camp,  including  Tonti,  had  read  it,  and  con 
sequently  was  ready  to  believe  that  his  neigh 
bor's  ego,  if  not  his  own,  some  time  or  other 
might  have  been  up  to  almost  anything. 

The  first  person  to  come  in  from  the  outside 
after  we  had  saturated  ourselves  with  our 
pseudo-metaphysics  was  Stuart  Osborn,  and 
what  with  unconscious  suggestion  and  telepathy 
we  might  easily  have  forced  the  whole  affair 
on  him.  I  say  it  could  be  explained  that  way, 
but  whether  that  explanation  would  be  cor 
rect—that's  a  vastly  different  matter. 

The  manifestations,  to  use  Mrs.  McRae's 
word,  began  on  the  very  night  of  Stuart's  ar 
rival.  We  had  pitched  our  tents  on  the  rim  of 

39 


40  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

"Montezuma's  Well,"  and  after  supper  were 
sitting,  as  usual,  around  the  campfire,  with  the 
big  Arizona  stars  over  us  looking  so  near  that 
Bill  Hewett,  the  Josselyn  guide,  said  he  believed 
he  could  light  his  cigarette  on  one  of  them  if 
he  would  only  stretch  a  little. 

Professor  and  Mrs.  McRae  had  just  returned 
from  a  three-days'  trip  to  some  newly  explored 
cliff-dwellings  on  Beaver  Creek,  and  were  show 
ing  us  a  woven  cotton  belt  they  had  found  that 
had  been  made  by  some  aborigine  not  less  than 
five  hundred  and  possibly  a  thousand  years  ago. 
It  was  faded  and  worn,  but  of  exquisite  work 
manship. 

Stuart  looked  at  it  for  a  long  time  in  a  pre 
occupied  sort  of  way,  and  finally  said:  "There 
ought  to  be  a  lot  better  one  than  that  in  the 
cave  down  by  the  'Well.' ' 

The  professor  looked  at  him  sharply.  "What 
makes  you  think  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  knitting  his  eye 
brows  as  though  trying  to  remember  something. 
"Aren't  they  always  apt  to  find  things  like  that 
in  kivas?" 

"Kivas!"  repeated  the  professor  inquisi- 
torially,  "What  do  you  know  about  kivas?  Have 
you  ever  been  in  Arizona  before?" 

"Why,  no;  guess  I  must  have  read  something 
about  them."  Later  he  said  to  me:  "What  in 
the  dickens  is  a  'kiva,'  anyway.  Did  I  make  up 
the  word?" 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  41 

Mrs.  McRae  overheard  him,  and  naturally 
that  was  enough  to  start  her  mystery-loving 
mind  to  buzzing.  "Tracy,"  she  said  to  me  when 
Stuart  turned  away,  "I  can  see  that  your  friend, 
Mr.  Osborn,  is  a  very  unusual  young  man.  Peo 
ple  with  his  kind  of  gray  eyes  are  very  apt  to  be 
psychic." 

I  didn't  attempt  to  reply  to  this  remarkable 
bit  of  optical  information — knowing  Mrs.  Mc 
Rae;  but  instead  put  up  a  smoke  screen  and 
retreated  to  my  tent  in  good  order. 

Impelled  by  a  desire  to  get  certain  long 
shadows  into  a  landscape  on  which  I  was  work 
ing,  I  was  up  at  sunrise  the  next  morning,  but 
early  as  I  was  Stuart  was  ahead  of  me,  and  as 
I  looked  over  the  cliff  that  runs  up  from  the 
"Well,"  I  saw  him  half  way  down  the  pre 
cipitous  sides  of  the  big  bowl,  jumping  like  a 
goat  from  one  little  foothold  to  another. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  man!"  I  yelled  to  him, 
"Stop !  You  can't  get  down  that  way.  You'll  be 
killed!" 

He  only  waved  his  hand  at  me,  continuing 
his  mad  descent  until  he  got  to  the  water's  edge, 
where  he  disappeared.  At  this,  for  a  second  or 
two,  my  hair  stood  straight  up,  for  as  everybody 
in  Arizona  knows,  "Montezuma's  Well"  is  only 
a  matter  of  a  thousand  or  so  feet  deep,  with 
almost  unequaled  drowning  facilities. 

However,  wholly  uninundated,  Stuart  soon 
reappeared,  and  after  lighting  a  cigarette  started 
up  again. 


42  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

If  it  had  been  anyone  but  Stuart  Osborn  who 
was  trying  this  stunt  it  might  not  have  seemed 
so  hare  brained,  but  Stuart —  We  were  room 
mates  at  Harvard  where  he  and  all  that  per 
tained  to  the  big,  broad  out  of  doors  were  most 
decidedly  not  on  speaking  terms,  and  in  spite 
of  his  conscientious  work  at  the  gym — which  he 
took  about  as  joyously  as  a  cat  would  a  shower 
bath — he  was  a  grind  of  the  most  incorrigible 
type,  wasting  precious  hours  over  musty  books 
that  he  might  have  passed  profitably  rooting  at 
a  football  game  or  driving  Beatrix  about  in 
her  car. 

To  my  knowledge  he  had  never  ridden  a 
horse  in  his  life,  never  shot  a  gun  nor  thrown 
a  line  for  a  fish,  and  his  wildest  attempt  at 
exploration  had  been  to  make  an  unchaperoned 
visit  to  New  York,  where  unguided  and  alone 
he  had  explored  the  jungles  of  Bronx  Park. 

By  the  time  Stuart  had  neared  the  top  of 
the  bowl  the  entire  camp,  startled  by  my  shouts, 
was  waiting  for  him. 

Beatrix  Josselyn,  Stuart's  fiancee,  who  was 
usually  about  as  animated  as  a  pond  lily  in 
August,  was  almost  excited  and  suggested  to 
Tonti  that  they  throw  down  a  rope.  "Don't  you 
be  afraid,  Miss  Josselyn,"  I  heard  Tonti  say,  "he 
jumps  with  straight  feet.  I  think,  like  myself, 
he  may  be  part  Indian."  Whereupon  Beatrix's 
anxiety  was  quite  overcome  by  gasping  indig 
nation. 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  43 

When,  with  a  last  agile  spring,  Stuart  gained 
the  top,  Mrs.  Josselyn  was  the  first  to  greet 
him.  "And  you  hadn't  even  had  your  coffee," 
she  said  reproachfully.  "Stuart,  how  could  you 
be  so  wildly  reckless?" 

Her  son-in-law-to-be  did  not  seem  to  hear 
her.  He  was  looking  at  Duncan  McRae  with  a 
smile  all  over  his  face.  "Professor,  I've  a  hunch 
where  that  girdle  is  I  was  telling  you  about. 
Let's  go  down  after  breakfast  and  see  if  we 
can't  find  it." 

And  they  did  find  it.  It  was  the  most  amaz 
ing  thing.  We  descended  by  the  regular  trail 
this  time — Professor  and  Mrs.  McRae,  the  Jos- 
selyns,  Tonti  and  her  aboriginal  ancestor,  old 
Ky-loo,  Bill  Hewlett  and  myself. 

Although  none  of  us  had  indicated  the  way 
and  the  entrance  was  screened  with  brush, 
Stuart  walked  directly  to  the  cave,  took  a  candle 
from  Tonti,  and  stooping  over  led  the  way  in 
side  and  then  on  to  a  far  corner  where  roof 
and  floor  met.  Here  he  paused  uncertainly 
while  the  rest  of  us,  in  a  semi-circle  back  of 
him,  gaped  non-intelligently  like  the  chorus  of 
merry  villagers  in  a  comic  opera. 

Old  Ky-loo  shoved  a  sort  of  wooden  spade 
into  Stuart's  hand.  "Want  to  dig?"  he  sug 
gested. 

It  seemed  as  though  that  was  what  our  young 
friend  with  the  psychic  gray  eyes  did  want  to 
do,  though  apparently  unconscious  of  it,  for 


44  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

after  he  had  removed  a  peck  or  so  of  loose  dirt 
he  exposed  a  section  of  wall  built  up  with  stones 
set  in  the  old  mud-mortar  of  the  cliff-dwellers. 

It  was  curious  to  see  Ky-loo  and  the  pro 
fessor,  right  at  Stuart's  elbows,  watch  him  for 
all  the  world  like  a  couple  of  Airdales  when  one 
is  digging  out  a  ground  squirrel. 

It  took  only  a  few  minutes  to  loosen  the 
stones,  and  when  they  had  been  removed,  there, 
in  a  little  recess,  were  two  burial  ollas,  with  the 
usual  saucer-like  covers,  and  between  them  a 
fiber-covered  roll  about  two  and  a  half  feet 
long. 

Immediately  Ky-loo  pounced  upon  the  roll 
and  started  for  the  entrance  of  the  cave  while 
Professor  McRae  and  I  followed  with  the  ollas. 

When  we  reached  the  open  air  and  uncov 
ered  the  find,  one  urn  proved  to  contain  the 
partially  incinerated  skeletal  remains  of  a  man, 
the  other  of  a  woman,  while  within  the  roll  we 
found  two  complete  sets  of  the  most  wonderful 
aboriginal  ceremonial  dress,  one  masculine  and 
the  other  feminine,  I  have  ever  seen.  There  was 
a  woman's  tunic,  a  man's  kilt,  head-dresses  of 
eagle  feathers,  anklets  and  wristlets  made  of 
wild  sheep  toes,  necklaces,  moccasins  and  not 
only  the  one  expected  girdle,  but  two,  beauti 
fully  woven  of  heavy  cotton  cloth  like  the  kilt 
and  tunic,  dyed  in  blue  and  brown,  and  with 
heavy  fringe  at  the  ends. 

"For  some  reason,"  observed  Stuart  mildly, 


WAITING  FOR  TONT1  45 

"I  had  a  hunch  there  might  be  something  like 
that  there." 

"A  hoonch!"  repeated  McRae,  whose  little 
bright  eyes  were  fairly  crackling  with  excite 
ment,  "Mon,  ye're  veery  mild  with  your  sub 
stantives." 

The  effect  the  find  had  on  old  Ky-loo  was 
almost  as  interesting  as  the  discovery  itself.  He 
took  the  feminine  toggery  and  gave  it  to  Tonti, 
who  immediately  disappeared  into  the  cave,  and 
by  the  time  he  had  adorned  himself  with  the 
man's  regalia  Tonti  reappeared,  having  effected 
a  most  amazing  transformation. 

To  make  the  situation  plain  I  must  tell  you 
that  although  Tonti's  mother  was  old  Ky-loo's 
daughter  and  a  full-blooded  Hopi  Indian,  her 
father  was  an  American,  and  while  considered 
somewhat  eccentric  was  a  man  of  education  and 
refinement.  It  seems  he  had  come  to  Arizona 
as  a  botanist  to  study  its  flora,  and  had  married 
little  Sun-on-the-hill,  as  they  called  her,  first 
because  she  had  nursed  him  through  smallpox 
when  his  white  companions  had  left  him  to  die, 
and  secondly  because  she  was  a  mighty  nice 
little  woman,  and  being  a  Hopi  mustn't  be  con 
fused  with  a  Sioux  or  a  Navajo  squaw  any  more 
than  a  cultivated  English  woman  should  be  with 
a  wild  Albanian. 

Tonti  had  a  year  at  Columbia  after  she  had 
finished  with  the  Government  schools,  and  the 
first  time  I  met  her,  in  her  smart  white  duck 


46  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

with  a  tennis  racket  under  her  arm,  I  had  no 
idea  that  she  wasn't  a  white  girl.  Now  as  she 
came  out  of  the  cave  dressed  in  the  garments 
of  the  ancient  semi-civilized  cliff-dwellers,  she 
was  an  Indian  from  the  eagle  feathers  on  her 
hair  to  the  red-soled  moccasins  on  her  feet.  But 
she  was  more  than  Indian — she  was  part  of  the 
forgotten,  mysterious  past;  wild  as  a  doe  is 
wild,  but  with  the  same  kindly  gentleness  that 
is  oftener  seen  among  the  better  Pueblo  Indians 
than  among  white  people. 

Ky-loo  immediately  struck  up  a  weird  sort 
of  a  chant  and  began  dancing,  swinging  his 
arms  in  a  not  ungraceful  fashion,  like  the  wings 
of  a  great  bird. 

Tonti  joined  him,  but  after  dancing  for  per 
haps  a  minute  or  two,  stopped  before  Stuart, 
and  taking  the  eagle  feathers  off  her  head 
reached  up  and  put  them  on  the  white  man. 
"This  is  our  old  eagle  ceremony,"  she  said  in 
a  tone  that  seemed  to  imply,  "Of  course  you 
know  all  about  it."  Then:  "You  should  dance 
it,  too." 

To  my  amazement  my  old  book-worm  of  a 
room-mate  at  once  complied,  falling  naturally 
into  both  the  step  and  the  queer,  graceful  move 
ments  of  the  arms. 

After  a  minute  old  Ky-loo  stopped  and  be 
came  the  orchestra,  while  Tonti  and  Stuart  con 
tinued  the  performance. 

The  aboriginal  dance  is  apt  to  be  a  jiggly, 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  47 

angular  and  rather  monotonous  affair,  but  as 
Tonti  and  Stuart  danced  it,  it  would  have  made 
a  hit  on  any  vaudeville  stage.  Personally  I 
thought  it  stunning.  I  guess  we  all  did  but  the 
Josselyns.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  Mrs.  J.  thought 
it  quite  uncalled  for,  while  Beatrix  was  dis 
tinctly  bored. 

When  they  finally  stopped,  she  said  with  a 
decidedly  arctic  tinge  to  her  voice:  "Well, 
Stuart,  if  this  is  the  way  Arizona  air  is  going 
to  affect  you,  I  think  we'd  better  go  back  to 
Cambridge." 

During  the  days  that  followed,  to  the  Jos- 
selyn's  increasing  consternation,  Arizona  air, 
or  some  other  mysterious  impulse,  continued  to 
incite  Stuart  to  all  sorts  of  startling  things — 
for  him.  He  went  out  hunting  with  me,  learned 
a  lot  of  Indian  lore  of  old  Ky-loo,  and  had  Bill 
not  only  teach  him  how  to  ride,  but  give  him 
lessons  in  wrestling  as  well.  The  only  fault  he 
had  with  the  guide's  camp  was  that  it  contained 
too  many  luxuries. 

"Let's  tie  a  blanket  apiece  and  a  bag  of 
tortillas  behind  our  saddles  and  trek  across  the 
country,"  he  suggested  to  me  one  morning.  "I 
want  to  get  a  taste  of  the  real  thing." 

"Stuart,"  I  replied  firmly,  "Nature  is  all  right 
in  its  place,  and  a  solo  of  tortillas  would  doubt 
less  be  quite  satisfying  for  old  Ky-loo — if  he 
couldn't  get  anything  better;  but,  speaking  per 
sonally,  I  prefer  my  rugged  penetration  into  the 


48  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

wilderness  tempered  with  a  mattress  and  straw 
berry  jam.  Bill  is  a  dispensation  of  Providence 
and  his  camp  isn't  any  too  de  luxe  for  me." 

Naturally  this  new  Stuart  and  Beatrix  didn't 
get  along  at  all  well  together.  I  watched  her 
try  to  entertain  him  one  morning.  She  began 
with  an  annual  report  she  had  just  received 
from  a  Ceramic  Art  League,  followed  with  a 
paper  she  was  preparing  on  prison  reform  and 
wound  up  with  a  poem  by  Tagore. 

Stuart  listened  politely  with  his  eyes  on  the 
distant  mountains.  "I  got  a  new  view  yesterday 
from  the  top  of  Cherry  Creek  Hill,"  he  said  when 
she  had  finished.  "I'll  bet  the  gods  on  Olympus 
never  saw  anything  that  could  touch  it." 

Beatrix  was  looking  at  a  letter.  "The  Apollo 
concerts,  they  say,  are  better  than  ever — with 
the  new  leader." 

"Uh-huh!"  agreed  Stuart.  "And  speaking  of 
music,  did  you  hear  that  canyon  wren  this  morn 
ing?  Talk  about  divine  melody,  that  bird's  song 
went  straight  up  to  Heaven's  dome.  Beatrix, 
let's  take  a  hike  down  to  Montezuma's  Castle  or 
some  place.  I'll  shoot  some  cottontails  and  we 
can  broil  them  on  spits." 

Beatrix  sighed.  "I'll  never  let  anyone  I 
really  care  for  come  West  again.  You'll  never 
be  the  same  you  were,  Stuart.  Go  off  and  play 
with  Tonti.  She  doesn't  mind  getting  sand  in 
her  shoes  or  ants  down  her  neck.  Besides,  she 
doesn't  freckle." 


WAITING  FOR  TONT1  49 

And,  of  course,  being  a  mere  man,  Stuart 
didn't  know  any  better  than  to  take  her  at  her 
word  and  go  off  with  Tonti. 

One  day  Tonti,  Stuart  and  I  were  riding 
together.  "I  believe  the  feel  of  the  Southwest 
has  really  gotten  into  your  veins,"  said  the  girl, 
looking  at  Stuart's  tanned  face  and  easy  posture 
in  his  saddle  in  obvious  admiration. 

"Tonti,"  he  replied — he  always  called  her 
that  now — "the  first  night  I  was  here  I  had  a 
curious  feeling  that  this  whole  country  was  my 
house — that  I  had  a  key  that  could  unlock  every 
door.  Now,  though  my  objective  self  knows  the 
desert  a  lot  better,  and  I  never  want  to  leave  it, 
some  way  that  first  feeling  is  dimmed.  My  key 
doesn't  fit  as  well  as  it  did." 

"Perhaps  it  fitted  too  well  at  first,"  she  re 
plied,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.  "Perhaps 
you  were  remembering — more  than  the  gods 
permit."  A  wistful,  eager  look  came  suddenly 
to  her  eyes.  "I  envy  you,  though,  with  your 
key.  If  you  unlock  other  doors — will  you  let 
me  see  inside,  too?" 

This  seemed  to  be  just  a  bit  too  mystical  for 
Stuart,  for  he  replied  in  a  matter-of-fact  sort 
of  a  tone,  "I  think  you  have  seen  inside  every 
one  I  know  anything  about.  Anyway,  they  didn't 
seem  to  open  into  anything  more  tangible  than 
— moonshine — the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made 
of." 

"Dreams  about  things  out  here?    The  cliffs?" 


50  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

He  nodded.  "A  patchwork  of  disconnected 
things;  and  I  forget." 

Tonti's  manner  was  still  very  serious. 
"Listen,  Stuart," — she  hesitated  just  a  moment 
over  his  first  name — "if  you  dream  about  them 
again,  wake  yourself  up  and  go  over  the  inci 
dents  in  your  mind  before  they  fade,  then  tell 
me.  I  have  a  special  reason  for  asking." 

It  was  that  same  afternoon  that  the  Navajo, 
Hastin  Nez,  who  afterwards  played  such  a  sin 
ister  part  in  what  happened,  first  visited  our 
camp.  He  was  a  bold,  good-looking  chap,  in  a 
swaggering  sort  of  a  way,  and  in  his  dark 
trousers  with  the  green  velveteen  shirt  that  the 
Navajo  dandies  affect,  was  decidedly  pic 
turesque. 

He  was  working  for  a  cattleman  on  the 
Verde,  and  rode  in,  with  two  others  of  his 
tribe,  to  fill  their  canteens.  I  had  been  making 
some  sketches  of  Tonti  in  her  cliff-dweller  cos 
tume,  and  when  Hastin  came  around  the  corner 
of  the  tent  where  I  was  working,  after  pausing 
to  stare  at  Tonti  first  in  surprise  and  then  in 
admiration,  walked  up  to  her  and  greeted  her 
like  an  old  friend. 

They  talked  in  English,  and  I  learned  that 
some  years  earlier  they  had  been  in  a  Govern 
ment  school  together,  but  while  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  much  taken  with  pretty  little  Tonti, 
she  seemed  not  only  to  dislike  him  and  look 
upon  him  for  what  he  was,  an  uncouth  savage, 
but  for  some  reason  to  fear  him  as  well. 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  51 

She  was  polite  enough,  but  I  could  see  that 
her  unconscious  air  of  superiority  galled  him. 
Finally,  to  get  rid  of  him,  she  started  over  to  the 
Josselyn  tent,  and  as  she  did  so  he  said  gruffly: 
"You  think  you  too  smart.  You  see;  I  come 
back  and  tell  you  some  things." 

He  made  his  word  good.  Several  days  later 
Stuart  and  I  were  returning  to  camp  from  a  hike 
over  the  hills.  Our  path  took  us  along  the 
creek  bottom  where  at  places  it  was  grown  up 
with  brush.  Suddenly  from  behind  a  thicket 
we  heard  voices  which  we  recognized  as  be 
longing  to  Tonti  and  Hastin.  As  we  listened  the 
man's  amazing  words  sent  hot,  fighting  blood 
to  our  faces.  "My  fathers  always  stole  their 
wives  from  the  Hopis.  We  pick  out  the  girl 
we  want  and  we  marry  her.  You  better  come 
with  me  now.  If  don't  come,  I  come  back  some 
night  and  make  you." 

The  girl  cried  out  in  terror,  and  we  plunged 
through  the  bushes  in  their  direction.  As  we 
came  upon  them,  the  Navajo  had  Tonti  by  the 
wrists  and  was  pulling  her  toward  him.  Stuart 
was  ahead  of  me,  and  I  could  see  his  fists  tighten 
as  he  lunged  forward  to  strike  the  brute.  I 
caught  hold  of  him  and  held  him  back  just  in 
time  to  save  him,  for  with  an  incredibly  swift 
movement  Hastin  had  loosened  his  grip  on  the 
girl  and  had  whipped  out  an  ugly  looking  knife. 

For  a  second  or  two  the  white  man  and 
Indian  stood  there  with  tense  muscles,  glaring 


52  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

at  each  other;  then  Hastin  dodged  backward 
behind  a  sycamore,  and  by  the  time  we  caught 
sight  of  him  again  he  was  on  horseback  spurring 
his  beast  down  the  creek. 

Naturally  Tonti  was  pretty  well  shaken,  and 
I  thought  at  the  time  rather  hysterical,  for  as 
she  looked  up  at  Stuart  she  said :  "He  has  been 
after  me — to  drag  me  down — from  a  thousand 
years  ago." 

After  we  got  back  to  camp  and  sat  smoking 
in  our  tent,  Stuart  said:  "No;  I  don't  know  just 
what  Tonti  did  mean,  but  it  was  not  hysteria." 
He  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  pipe  a  while  and 
then  went  on.  "I  believe,  too,  it  is  in  some  way 
connected  with  something  I  have  been  thinking 
about  lately.  I  have  a  firm  conviction  that  every 
man  in  this  world  has  an  instinctive,  inevitable 
enemy  that  he  meets  sooner  or  later,  and  as  a 
part  of  the  struggle  that  man  has  had  from  the 
stone  age,  he  has  had  to  fight  him — to  the  finish." 

"You've  met  your  enemy?"  I  suggested,  for 
this  new  Stuart  was  certainly  interesting,  if  not 
always  understandable. 

"Yes;  today.  I  know  it  sounds  foolish  to 
dignify  a  brute  like  that  Navajo  with  anything 
so  important,  yet  in  a  way  I  can't  explain,  he 
represents  my  enemy — of  all  the  ages — repre 
sents  the  kind  of  thing  that  something  in  me 
seems  to  want  to  fight  against."  He  was  smok 
ing  placidly  now.  "It  must  sound  like  awful 
rot,  but  I  believe  there  is  something  in  it — if 
you  get  me." 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  53 

I  didn't  get  the  idea  very  well  at  the  time, 
but  I  did  from  what  happened  later,  and — that 
is  why  I  am  writing  this  story. 

That  night  as  we  all  sat  around  the  camp- 
fire  we  were  talking,  as  we  often  did,  about  what 
had  become  of  the  cliff-dwellers.  There  were 
hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  their  houses  built 
in  the  recesses  of  the  cliffs  in  the  Southwest, 
and  although  many  of  them  are  in  good  repair, 
even  now,  there  was  not  a  soul  left  living  in 
them  when  the  Spaniards  came  up  in  the  six 
teenth  century,  and  judging  them  by  the  articles 
left  in  their  deserted  dwellings,  there  were  no 
people  left  in  the  country  that  could  compare 
with  them  in  civilized  advancement.  Just  what 
had  become  of  them  was  the  great  unsolved 
mystery  that  Professor  McRae  was  working  on. 

As  we  talked  the  usual  theories — volcanoes, 
earthquakes,  pestilence,  warfare  and  the  like 
were  suggested,  when  finally  Beatrix,  who  was 
allowing  the  friendship  between  Tonti  and 
Stuart  to  get  decidedly  on  her  nerves,  remarked : 
"Well,  if  they  feel  like  I  do  about  this  God-for 
saken  country,  they  probably  all  died  of  ennui." 

"Jus'  naturally  yawned  themselves  to  death," 
translated  Bill.  "Maybe  it  was  some  kind  of  a 
bug  that  bit  'em.  How  about  it,  Professor?" 

"Theer  may  have  been  a  veeriety  of  reasons,*' 
began  McRae  with  his  usual  caution.  "This 
afternoon  Stuart  here  was  tellin'  Miss  Tonti  a 
maist  reemarkable  tale,  which  rather  follows 


54  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

my  own  convictions.  Wheer  did  ye  get  the 
story,  lad?" 

Osborn  looked  decidedly  uncomfortable  at 
thus  being  drawn  into  the  limelight.  "Just  a 
weird  sort  of  a  dream  I  had  after  all  the  quail 
pie  the  other  night,  though  I  will  say  it  would 
have  made  a  corking  movie.  It  must  have  been 
those  Navajoes  that  suggested  it.  I  thought  a 
horde  of  such  ruffians  came  down  from  the 
north  and  overran  the  country  like  the  Goths 
did  Rome.  It  really  was  tremendously  vivid," 
he  went  on,  warming  up  to  his  tale.  "The  at 
tacking  bands  used  sort  of  notched  poles  with 
a  hooked  branch  on  the  end  for  scaling  ladders. 
They  fought  with  stone  hatchets  and  spears,  as 
well  as  bows  and  arrows,  while  the  cliff-dwellers 
rained  stones  on  them,  holding  other  weapons 
in  readiness  for  closer  combat." 

The  professor  was  watching  him  curiously. 
"Hoo  did  the  fight  come  oot?"  He  spoke  softly 
as  though  fearing  to  break  some  kind  of  a  spell. 

"I  don't  seem  to  remember,"  replied  Stuart, 
knitting  his  brows  as  he  did  when  puzzled.  "It's 
all  kind  of  hazy.  I  thought  I  was  watching  the 
fight  down  at  Montezuma's  Castle.  The  cliff- 
dwellers  were  making  their  defense  from  the 
top  story  where  the  parapeted  gallery  is.  They 
were  a  short,  stocky  people  like  Ky-loo,  but  put 
up  a  wonderful  fight  against  the  savages,  who 
were  half  as  big  again." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  psychic?"  whispered 
Mrs*  McRae  into  my  ear. 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  55 

I  pretended  not  to  hear  her. 

"What  I  remember  clearest,"  went  on  Stuart, 
"is  a  personal  encounter  between  the  chief  of 
the  cliffmen  and  the  leader  of  the  invaders — a 
big,  ugly  brute." 

"The  cliff  man  killed  him?"  Mrs.  McRae 
couldn't  any  more  let  a  person  tell  a  story  un 
assisted  than  she  could  live  without  eating. 

Stuart  drew  a  choking  breath.  "No;  the 
savage  killed  him — threw  him  over  the  parapet. 
It  was  a  sickening  thing." 

"And  then—" 

"And  then,  the  girl—  Did  I  tell  you  that 
the  women  were  in  it,  too?  The  girl — she 
seemed  to  be  the  chief's  sweetheart — when  she 
saw  what  had  happened,  without  a  word  or  a 
cry,  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  parapet  at  one 
end  where  there  was  no  one  to  stop  her,  stood 
there  poised  for  one  terrible  moment — and 
jumped!" 

"And  the  savages  won?" 

"They  must  have.  It  all  got  very  confused 
after  the  chief  was — was  killed.  Even  the  death 
of  the  girl  seemed  to  come  to  me — afterwards. 
And — that's  all."  He  rubbed  his  eyes  as  one 
might  on  wakening. 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by 
old  Ky-loo,  who,  though  he  spoke  English  but 
brokenly,  understood  it  very  well.  "I  sabe  fight 
ing  like  that,"  he  said  excitedly.  "I  heap  know 
those  fightings."  And  he  poured  forth  a  torrent 
of  words  to  Tonti  in  his  native  tongue. 


56  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

"He  says,"  translated  the  girl,  "that  that  is 
the  way  the  Hopis  think  the  cliff-dwellers 
around  here  really  were  killed  or  driven  out. 
The  few  who  were  left,  we  of  the  Eagle  clan 
believe,  were  our  ancestors,  and  the  Navajoes, 
in  part,  may  have  descended  from  those  who 
fought  us.  Do  you  wonder  we  think  them 
enemies?" 

As  we  were  going  to  our  tents,  Stuart  and 
Tonti  were  standing  near  my  door  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes  as  lovers  look.  "You  saw  the 
face  of  the  cliff  man  chief?"  she  was  asking 
him. 

"No;  no,  but  I  did  see  the  girl.  Do  you 
know  who  she  was?" 

Tonti  did  not  reply,  but  rested  her  hand  in 
his. 

"She  was — you." 

I  went  into  my  tent  and  could  still  hear  them 
talking — things,  heaven  knows,  I  had  no  busi 
ness  to  hear,  so  I  started  the  victrola!  That 
stopped  it! 

Ever  since  Stuart  and  Tonti  had  danced  the 
eagle  dance  I  had  it  in  mind  to  try  a  painting 
of  the  two  dressed  as  ancient  cliff-people,  using 
a  room  in  the  Montezuma's  Castle  as  a  back 
ground.  On  Beatrix's  account  I  didn't  want  to 
take  the  two  off  by  themselves,  so  I  suggested 
that  the  entire  camp  go  down  in  my  car,  have 
a  picnic  supper  and  return  by  moonlight.  I 
would  take  a  canvas  along  and  make  a  start  on 
the  picture. 


WAITING  FOR  TONTl  57 

My  suggestion  met  with  general  enthusiasm, 
and  in  a  half  hour  we  were  on  our  way — Pro 
fessor  and  Mrs.  McRae,  Tonti,  Stuart  and  even 
Ky-loo,  whom  I  wanted  for  a  special  purpose. 
Hewlett  remained  in  camp  to  look  after  the 
horses. 

Just  before  we  reached  our  destination  we 
passed  the  three  Navajoes,  when  Hastin  waved 
his  hand  at  us  in  impudent  assurance  and  called 
a  greeting  to  Tonti. 

"I  have  a  feeling  that  some  day  I'll  kill  that 
fellow,"  said  Stuart;  at  which  mild  suggestion 
an  atavistic  gleam  of  approval  came  into  Tonti's 
usually  gentle  eyes,  and  I  wondered  whether  it 
harked  back  to  red  ancestors  or  white. 

After  we  had  climbed  up  the  ladder  into  the 
big  house  in  the  cliff,  with  Ky-loo's  assistance, 
it  took  less  than  a  half  hour  to  make  a  perfectly 
good  aborigine  out  of  Stuart,  accomplished  by 
applying  a  nice  brown  stain  to  his  skin  and 
thereafter  adorning  him  with  the  ancient  rai 
ment. 

Tonti  had  worn  her  costume  from  the  camp, 
and  it  was  wonderfully  becoming.  The  finely 
woven  tunic,  made  to  expose  her  left  arm  and 
shoulder,  reached  to  her  knees,  her  moccasins 
were  red  soled  and  the  aboriginal  puttees  were 
of  fine  deer  skin.  Her  hair  she  had  arranged 
with  the  Hopi  "squash  blossom"  whorls,  and 
altogether  when  I  had  the  two  perched  on  the 
gallery  that  made  the  fifth  story  of  the  "castle," 


58  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

they  made  a  picture  that  was  mighty  easy  to 
look  at. 

"Mr.  Osborn's  features  don't  look  like  Tonti's 
people,"  whispered  Mrs.  McRae,  who  was  watch 
ing  me  work,  "but  the  attitude  and  the  spirit 
behind  his  face  certainly  do."  And  although 
the  remark  irritated  me  in  an  irrational  sort 
of  a  way,  I  knew  she  was  exactly  right. 

I  tried  to  switch  her  from  her  line  of  talk, 
but  without  success. 

"You  two  look  as  though  you  had  lived  here 
all  your  lives,"  she  went  on. 

"My  ancestral  grandmother  quite  likely  used 
to  spin  cotton  up  here,"  replied  Tonti.  She 
looked  at  Stuart  curiously.  "I  wonder  what 
your  ancestors  were  doing  then." 

"Some  of  them  might  have  been  wild  men 
in  the  Hebrides,  or  helping  St.  Patrick  drive  the 
snakes  out  of  Ireland,"  he  said  with  a  frank 
grin. 

This  was  not  at  all  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Mc 
Rae,  for  she  added  quickly,  "But  your  ego  may 
not  have  been  with  your  ancestors.  It  may  have 
been,  at  that  time,  occupying  the  body  of  some 
cliff-dweller  at  the  Well." 

I  thought  this  was  piling  the  ego  business  on 
a  little  too  thick,  even  for  Mrs.  McRae.  "You 
got  that  out  of  that  idiotic  transmigration  book," 
I  said  crossly.  "You'll  be  seeing  spooks  up  here 
next." 

"If  I  do,"  she  returned  imperturbably,  "I'll 
introduce  them  to  you." 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  59 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  my  models 
became  tired  of  holding  their  positions,  and 
Tonti  and  Mrs.  McKay  wandered  down  to  one 
of  the  lower  stories  where  the  professor  was 
explaining  how  the  old  ruin  probably  was  built, 
while  Beatrix  came  up  and  talked  with  Stuart. 

I  was  at  one  end  of  the  gallery  working  on 
some  background,  and  as  usual  the  couple  at 
the  other  end  paid  about  as  much  attention  to 
me  as  though  I  had  been  a  pile  of  rock. 

"You  know,  Stuart,  we'll  never  marry  in  this 
wide  world,"  Beatrix  began  in  her  usual  placid 
tone.  "I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  it  has 
just  come  to  me  that  we  aren't  even  engaged." 

Stuart  had  been  looking  out  above  the  para 
pet  at  the  white  clouds  that  were  drifting  over 
head,  but  at  this  startling  bit  of  information  he 
turned  to  his  vis-a-vis  with  blinking  eyes. 
"Aren't  we?"  he  said.  But  while  there  was  sur 
prise  there  was  no  consternation  in  his  tone. 
"A  man  I  used  to  know  'back  East,'  a  certain 
Stuart  Osborn,  once  asked  me  to  marry  him; 
but  that  wasn't  you.  You  are  Running  Elk  or 
Tall  Cactus,  or  some  other  aborigine.  Just  think 
how  bored  we'd  be  with  each  other  if  we  ever 
did  marry." 

"Stuart  was  looking  over  the  parapet  again. 
"Maybe,"  he  admitted  absently,  and  then  added : 
"Beatrix,  did  you  ever  watch  a  treetop  from 
above?  Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  grace 
ful  than  the  way  it  sways  in  the  wind?" 


60  WAITING  FOR  TONT1 

Beatrix  looked  at  him  and  laughed.  "Did 
the  good  Lord  ever  make  such  a  man  before? 
Do  you  know  what  we  were  talking  about?" 

"Yes;  you  said  we  never  were  engaged.  Do 
you  really  mean  it?" 

I  decided  I'd  heard  about  enough  of  that,  too, 
and  called  out,  "Do  you  folks  know  that  it  is 
going  to  rain?" 

Beatrix  lazily  looked  first  at  the  clouds, 
which  really  were  rapidly  growing  black  and 
threatening,  and  then  at  her  wrist  watch.  "We 
may  as  well  eat  supper  and  wait  till  it's  over," 
she  said.  "We  would  be  drenched  before  we'd 
get  to  the  car  even  if  we  should  start  now." 

That  was  evident  enough,  for  rumblings  of 
distant  thunder  could  be  heard  and  occasional 
big  drops  were  already  falling.  By  the  time  we 
sat  down  to  supper  it  was  raining  in  a  good, 
business-like  downpour,  and  when  we  had  fin 
ished,  in  spite  of  the  full  moon  that  was  sup 
posed  to  be  somewhere  behind  the  clouds,  it 
was  uncomfortably  dark. 

Stuart  and  I  went  to  an  opening  and  looked 
out.  On  our  arrival  we  had  been  obliged  to 
leave  the  car  on  the  other  side  of  Beaver  Creek 
and  walk  across  to  the  cliff  on  stepping  stones. 
Through  the  fast-coming  night  we  could  see  that 
the  creek  was  steadily  rising. 

"I  hope  the  leddies  will  not  be  mindin'  trifles 
like  bats,"  suggested  the  professor.  "It  looks 
verra  mooch  to  me  that  we'll  bes  stayin'  here 
the  nicht." 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  61 

It  looked  that  way  to  me,  too,  and  as  we 
would  need  a  fire  for  light  if  not  for  heat,  I 
began  searching  corners  for  wood.  However, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  found  except  structural 
beams  that  it  would  be  all  but  sacrilege  to  use, 
so  Stuart  and  I  decided  to  brave  the  elements. 

I  had  a  raincoat,  but  at  that  my  old  room 
mate  had  the  best  of  me,  for  as  we  descended 
the  long  ladders,  when  the  rain  beat  back  from 
the  cliffs,  a  young  Niagara  ran  down  the  inside 
of  my  collar  while  Stuart,  still  outwardly  a 
cliff-dweller,  was  as  comfortable  as  a  surf 
bather  in  a  bathing  suit. 

When  we  reached  the  base  of  the  great  rock 
we  found  that  Ky-loo  had  accompanied  us,  and 
after  stumbling  about  for  a  while  actually  se 
cured  some  fairly  dry  wood. 

We  were  hurrying  back  through  the  swiftly 
gathering  blackness  when,  as  we  neared  the 
ladder,  we  saw  the  forms  of  three  men  gathered 
about  it. 

As  unconcernedly  as  though  they  had  been 
a  bunch  of  cats,  Stuart  hurled  a  chunk  of  wood 
into  their  midst.  "Our  Navajo  friends,"  he  ex 
plained  as  they  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 
"What  deviltry  do  you  suppose  they  are  up  to 
now?" 

"Better  take  up  bottom-side  ladder,"  sug 
gested  Ky-loo.  "That  way  cliffmen  fix  'um." 

A  cheerful  thought  struck  me.  "Do  you  sup 
pose  they  will  steal  the  tires  off  the  car?" 


62  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

"They  don'  want  steal  tires,"  replied  Ky-loo 
softly.  "Want  steal  my  girl.  You  got  gun?" 

Unfortunately  neither  of  us  had,  but  in  view 
of  the  steadily  increasing  rain  that  all  but  swept 
us  from  our  footholds,  after  we  had  pulled  up 
the  lowest  ladder,  I  decided  that  nothing  less 
at  home  in  water  and  air  than  a  flying  fish 
would  be  able  to  negotiate  the  cliffs  on  that 
night. 

We  took  our  soggy  wood  to  the  top  gallery, 
where  Stuart,  by  some  sort  of  legerdemain,  suc 
ceeded  in  making  a  fire,  while  Ky-loo  and  I 
wrung  vast  quantities  of  quite  superfluous 
water  from  our  clothes. 

"To  think  of  spending  a  night  in  such  an 
awful  place!"  moaned  Mrs.  Josselyn.  "I  know 
Stuart  will  catch  his  death  of  cold,  un — ungar- 
mented  as  he  is.  Even  his  paint  is  washed  off." 
Her  remarks  were  temporarily  stopped  by  a 
small,  dark  object  that  careened  through  the 
air  past  her  head.  "Oo — ooh!"  she  shrieked. 
"Was  that  a  scorpion?" 

"Them  be  just  bats !"  explained  Ky-loo  sooth 
ingly.  "Like  mice  with  wings!  They  no  hurt." 

"Mice  with  wings!"  repeated  Mrs.  Josselyn 
wailingly.  "Beatrix,  if  we  ever  reach  Boston, 
never  mention  the  West  to  me  again." 

We  had  brought  robes  and  cushions  from  the 
car,  and  these,  spread  out  in  the  chamber  back 
of  the  upper  gallery,  made  a  possible  sleeping 
place  for  the  women,  while  we  men  arranged 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  63 

ourselves  for  the  night  in  the  next  story  lower. 

I  had  succeeded  in  getting  my  clothes  rea 
sonably  dry  before  the  fire,  and  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  our  only  mattress  was  the  earth- 
covered  floor,  went  to  sleep  readily  enough, 
though  what  with  the  unyielding  disposition 
of  my  bed,  the  noise  of  the  bats  and  the  beating 
of  the  rain,  my  rest  was,  to  speak  mildly,  some 
what  disturbed. 

The  real  apex  of  the  storm,  of  which  the 
earlier  performances  were  but  mild  prelimi 
naries,  must  have  struck  us  about  midnight.  I 
was  wakened  by  a  flash  that  was  like  an  in 
candescent  ball  of  fire  before  my  eyes,  followed 
instantly  by  a  crash  of  thunder  that  shook  the 
cliff.  Almost  immediately  there  was  a  second 
flash,  by  the  light  of  which  I  saw  that  McRae 
was  sitting  bolt  upright,  and  also  noticed  that 
the  other  two  men,  who  had  been  lying  near 
us,  had  disappeared. 

"Where's  Stuart?"  I  shouted. 

McRae  seemed  too  dazed  to  reply,  but  in 
the  darkness  that  engulfed  us  again  I  could 
feel  him  get  up  and  grope  for  the  ladder  lead 
ing  upward  to  where  the  women  were.  I  fol 
lowed  him  and  as  I  pushed  my  way  up  through 
the  opening  in  the  floor  made  out  three  huddled 
forms  at  its  edge — forms  which  I  knew  to  be 
Beatrix  and  her  mother  and  Mrs.  McRae. 

"For  God's  sake!"  cried  Beatrix,  as  she 
gripped  me  by  the  wrist,  "look  there!" 


64  WAITING  FOR  TONTl 

I  strained  my  eyes  in  the  darkness.  At 
first  I  could  see  nothing,  but  my  ears  were  filled 
with  strange  noises.  The  thunder  for  the  time 
being  had  died  down  to  distant  rumblings,  but 
added  to  the  swish  of  rain  against  the  rocks 
outside,  the  gallery  was  filled  with  an  unearthly 
chattering  and  murmurs,  and  a  noise  as  of  the 
shuffling  of  many  bare  feet. 

Gradually  my  eyes  seemed  to  be  able  to 
penetrate  the  darkness,  and  in  an  unearthly  and 
unnatural  way  the  place  seemed  to  be  full  of 
people,  ghostly  shapes,  dressed  in  moccasins 
and  kilts  as  Stuart  had  been.  With  muffled 
sounds  they  would  pass  swiftly  up  and  down  the 
gallery,  going  within  a  few  feet  of  us. 

"It's  shadows !"  I  heard  McRae  mutter.  "The 
noise  is  the  bats!" 

There  was  a  sharp  whistling  sound  over  our 
head,  and  looking  up  I  could  swear  I  saw  ar 
rows  going  through  the  air,  and  strike  against 
the  rocks. 

The  Scotchman  was  repeating  to  himself 
between  set  teeth.  "It's  bars  of  rain,  I  tell  ye! 
Bars  of  rain!"  Mrs.  Josselyn,  who  was  lying 
prone  upon  the  floor,  moaned  in  abject  terror. 

Steadily  I  could  see  the  ghostly  forms  plainer, 
until  in  a  strange  way  they  seemed  to  become 
real,  while  the  group  around  me  became  uncer 
tain  and  fanciful.  The  forms  I  now  noticed 
were  of  little  people,  no  taller  than  Tonti,  but 
strongly  muscled.  The  parapet,  which  fronted 


WAITING  FOR  TONT1  65 

the  gallery,  was  lined  with  men,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  who  were  hurling  stones  down  into 
the  darkness.  Behind  them,  and  passing  them 
the  stones,  were  women,  also  bare  from  the 
waist  up. 

Suddenly  the  fighting  seemed  to  converge  at 
a  point  on  the  far  end  of  the  gallery.  The 
muffled  voices  grew  louder,  and  a  hellish  chorus 
seemed  to  come  up  from  below  and  outside  the 
parapet.  I  felt  McRae's  arm  pass  over  mine  as 
he  rested  his  bony  hand  reassuringly  on  his 
wife's  trembling  shoulder.  "Alice,"  I  heard  him 
say  doggedly,  as  though  trying  desperately  to 
hold  his  sanity,  "it's  the  noise  of  the  wind  ye 
hear,  that's  all — and  the  rain  against  the  rocks !" 
But  there  was  not  one  of  us  that  did  not  know 
that  he  was  gallantly  lying. 

There  came  another  vivid  flash  of  lightning 
and,  as  the  glare  lit  the  gallery,  most  of  the 
ghostly  forms  seemed  to  skurry  back  into  the 
shadows.  One  group,  though,  remained,  and  in 
that  brief  interval  of  light  there  was  burned 
upon  my  vision  a  scene  I  shall  never  forget. 

At  the  point  where  the  fighting  had  been 
the  thickest,  pushing  up  his  bulking  form  from 
the  outside  of  the  parapet,  was  Hastin  Nez, 
shouting  as  though  leading  an  attacking  force 
and  swinging  a  gleaming  knife.  Opposed  to  him 
was  Stuart  Osborn,  who  fought  him  with  bare 
hands.  At  the  instant  of  the  flash  the  Navajo, 
apparently  having  pushed  Stuart  back,  pulled 


66  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

himself  over  the  wall  onto  the  gallery.  I  thought 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Tonti  and  Ky-loo  just  back 
of  them. 

When  the  darkness  fell  again,  immediately 
I  could  both  see  and  hear  the  ghostly  forms 
skurry  back  to  the  wall,  but  this  time,  instead 
of  resuming  fighting,  all  seemed  to  stand  watch 
ing  the  conflict  between  their  white  champion 
and  the  Navajo — a  conflict  it  suddenly  seemed 
to  me  that  typified  the  eternal  struggle  between 
the  force  that  would  lift  up  and  that  wThich 
would  destroy. 

I  could  scarcely  make  out  the  forms  of  the 
two  men  now  locked  in  deadly  embrace,  but  it 
seemed  that  for  a  moment  a  third  form  joined 
them,  only  to  be  stricken  down. 

Again  it  lightened,  and  as  the  little  people 
skurried  back  I  saw  that  Stuart's  fingers  had 
closed  about  the  wrist  of  the  savage  hand  that 
held  the  knife,  and  was  pushing  it  back  above 
his  head.  At  the  feet  of  the  two  lay  old  Ky-loo 
with  a  red  blotch  on  his  face. 

Up  to  this  time  my  impulses  of  action  seem 
to  have  been  numbed  with  the  uncanniness  of 
it  all.  Now,  the  sight  of  the  little  Hopi  chief 
lying  wounded  on  the  floor,  even  more  than 
Stuart's  peril,  put  the  fighting  spirit  into  my 
veins,  and  I  started  forward  over  the  crouching 
women. 

I  had  only  taken  a  step  or  two  when  increas 
ing  darkness  so  blotted  the  scene  before  me  that 
I  could  not  tell  friend  from  foe. 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  67 

While  I  paused  uncertain  I  heard  Hastin's 
voice  in  vindictive,  brutish  grunts.  "I  kill  you 
before!  I  kill—" 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  From  the 
inky  clouds  that  had  caused  the  intense  dark 
ness  shot  fork  after  fork  of  dazzling  light  that 
seemed  to  illuminate  the  scene  for  an  eternity, 
and  to  the  accompanying  bellow  of  thunder 
which  followed,  the  rocks  quivered  and  trem 
bled  like  things  alive.  I  saw  Tonti,  with  her 
hand  on  the  top  of  the  parapet,  watching  the 
conflict  with  eyes  that  dilated  with  horror, 
and  I  thought  of  the  other  girl  of  the  distant 
past  that  had  followed  her  lover  over  the  cliffs; 
saw  Stuart  snap  his  antagonist's  hand  that 
held  the  knife  back  against  the  stone  front  of 
the  chambers,  and  the  knife  go  clattering  to 
the  floor;  I  saw  Stuart  push  the  Navajo's  head 
front  and  downward,  then  catching  him  from 
the  back,  under  the  armpits,  hurl  him  over  his 
shoulder  and  the  parapet  wall. 

Blackness  came  again,  and  in  my  mental 
vision  I  could  see  that  falling  body  turn  over 
and  over  in  the  darkness  and  crash  against  the 
stones.  From  the  shadowy  chambers  back  of 
us  came  wild  yells  of  exultation.  Then  all  was 
quiet. 

For  a  space  of  time  the  rain  came  down  with 
great  roaring.  When  it  suddenly  ceased  the 
clouds  broke,  and  through  the  rift  shone  the 
moon.  I  remember  thinking — quite  idiotically 


68  WAITING  FOR  TONTI 

— how  remarkable  it  was  that  the  moon  could 
take  all  that  had  happened  so  unconcernedly. 

Stuart  and  Tonti  were  helping  old  Ky-loo 
to  his  feet,  for  it  seemed  that  the  old  chap  was 
not  seriously  hurt.  Then  as  I  took  him  in  charge 
the  two  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  parapet. 

A  little  later  as  I  turned  to  them,  their  hands 
were  clasped  together  on  the  protecting  wall, 
and  she  was  looking  up  at  him  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  giving  him  her  very  soul.  "It  was 
decreed  that  I  must  win,"  he  was  saying  very 
softly.  "I  have  waited  a  thousand  years  for  you, 
Tonti,  my  very  dear." 

Then  perceiving  that  I,  as  usual,  was  hang 
ing  about  in  the  vicinity,  what  else  could  they 
do  but  call  me  over,  and  together  we  examined 
the  crude  scaling  ladder  by  which  the  Navajo 
had  pulled  himself  up,  and  which  followed  very 
nicely  the  specifications  set  forth  in  Stuart's 
dream. 

Suddenly  moving  forms  at  the  base  of  the 
cliff  attracted  my  attention.  At  first  the  shadow 
seemed  so  dense  I  could  scarcely  see  them,  but 
slowly  moving  away  they  came  into  a  little 
patch  of  moonlight,  when  I  saw  it  was  two  men, 
undoubtedly  Indians,  who  were  carrying  away 
the  body  of  a  third. 

The  sun  rose  the  next  morning  in  a  cloud 
less  sky.  Beaver  Creek  fell  as  quickly  as  it  had 
risen,  and  by  ten  o'clock  we  were  able  to  cross 
to  our  car  which,  to  my  surprise,  I  found  quite 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  69 

unharmed.    In  an  hour  more  we  were  in  camp. 

It  was  curious  that  on  our  return  trip  no 
one  attempted  to  talk  of  what  had  happened. 
The  time  doubtless  would  come  when  we  would 
be  loquacious  enough  about  it,  but  not  only  did 
the  tragedy  seem  to  put  a  seal  upon  our  lips, 
but  the  very  nature  of — the  other  things  seemed 
to  forbid  idle  discussion. 

Stuart  and  I  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  in 
our  tent  where  he  looked  through  papers  and 
wrote  letters  while  I  smoked  and  thought — or 
at  least  I  thought  I  thought. 

Once  he  remarked,  "I  suppose  retribution  is 
compensation  turned  wrong  side  out.  I  did 
what  I  did  only  because  there  was  no  escaping 
it."  Later  he  said:  "When  you  hear  it  ob 
served  that  a  man  answers  the  call  of  his 
destiny,  perhaps  it  simply  is  meant  that  he 
found  his  day's  work  laid  out  for  him,  and  he 
did  it." 

That  night,  just  as  the  light  had  faded  from 
the  western  sky,  the  moon  rose  gloriously,  flood 
ing  the  tableland  with  wonderful  light.  As  usual 
we  were  sitting  about  the  campfire.  Suddenly 
Stuart  looked  over  to  Tonti.  "Well,"  he  smiled, 
"I  guess  it's  time." 

The  girl  rose  and  went  over  to  old  Ky-loo, 
who  with  a  big  bandage  across  his  face  was 
smoking  peacefully.  They  talked  for  a  minute 
in  their  native  tongue,  when  the  old  man  rose, 
led  her  ceremoniously  over  to  Stuart,  and  put 
her  hand  in  his. 


70  WAITING  FOR  TONT1 

Stuart  included  us  all  in  a  sweep  of  his  quiet 
eyes.  "I  don't  want  to  be  theatrical  about  this, 
and  heaven  knows  you  don't  want  me  to  be,  or 
to  take  time  to  go  into  a  long  explanation — now. 
Tonti  and  I  belong  to  this  desert  country  and 
to  her  people — and  mine.  We  have  work  to 
do,  and  we  are  going  to  do  it — together." 

He  evidently  had  an  understanding  with 
Bill  Hewlett,  for  at  that  moment  the  guide 
brought  up  their  two  horses  with  a  blanket  roll 
and  a  canteen  apiece  tied  to  their  saddles. 

Quickly  they  mounted,  and  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand  and  an  "Hasta  la  vista!"  rode  away 
to  the  north." 

"But  it  isn't  proper!  It's — it's  downright 
scandalous,"  gasped  Mrs.  Josselyn,  "to  say  noth 
ing  of—" 

"Oh,  there  are  ministers  in  Flagstaff,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,"  said  Beatrix  indifferently. 
Then  turning  to  me  added :  "Tracy,  I  don't  envy 
them  what  they  are  going  to  do;  but  to  feel  that 
exaltation  they  had  in  their  faces — well,  it  must 
be  a  wonderful  sensation." 

"But  his  engagement  to  you!"  insisted  the 
mother,  still  mentally  gasping.  "Has  he  gone 
entirely  out  of  his  senses?" 

"That,  my  dear  Mrs.  Josselyn,"  I  ventured  to 
say,  "belongs  to  the  yesterdays,  which  are  as 
old — as  the  cliffs  themselves.  Beatrix  is  going 
to  marry  me." 

And  she  did. 


WAITING  FOR  TONTI  71 

Stuart  and  Tonti  rode  steadily  to  the  north. 
We  watched  them  until  they  disappeared  among 
the  rocks  and  trees. 

Of  what  was  I  thinking?  I  had  suddenly  re 
membered  that  certain  bones  of  the  skeleton  of 
the  woman  found  in  the  cave  showed  evidences 
of  being  broken  as  if  by  a  fall  from  a  great  dis 
tance,  and  it  was  slowly  dawning  on  me  who 
it  was  that  so  many  years  ago  had  clothed  those 
whitened  bones  with  fair  and  softly  rounded 
flesh. 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUL  191954 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52  ( A3105 )  444 


PS 

3535 


